


Secret Identities

by CatalenaMara



Series: Secret Identities [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Ableist Language, Alcohol, Amnesia, Bullying, Canon Divergence, Closeted Character, Fantastic Racism, Homophobia, Internalized racism, Loki Redemption, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Racial Appelations, Period-Typical Homophobia, Stigma against illness, Thor Redemption, Thorki - Freeform, Thunderfrost - Freeform, dubcon, pseudoincest, thorloki - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatalenaMara/pseuds/CatalenaMara
Summary: It’s a long and twisting road that leads to redemption, whether it’s Thor’s path back from his murderous attack on Jotunheim, or Loki’s descent into emotional darkness when his treachery backfired and he learned his true identity.  He struggles between his love for and his hatred of his brother - which path will he take?Canon divergence from the point where Odin falls into the Odinsleep.  Odin’s punishment for Thor’s arrogance:  Banish him to earth.  Make him mortal.  Take his memories from him and give him the identity of the mortal, Donald Blake, a mortal, moreover, with a disability.  Because three days as a mortal isn’t enough to overcome the habits of a lifetime.  At first Loki is gleeful about Thor’s banishment, but despite himself, Loki’s emotions turn into longing for what they had once, which turn into fear and determination as he realizes he has to somehow break Odin’s spell, restore Thor’s memories, and bring Thor home before Thor meets a mortal death.  And there’s also the matter of the pending war with Jotunheim…Art Post by Slice Of Pie here:http://slice-of-pai.tumblr.com/post/153331551222/secret-identities-by-catalenamara-its-a-long-and





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my betas [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Tenaya/profile)[**Tenaya**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Tenaya/) and [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/profile)[](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Muriel_Perun/)**Muriel_Perun** who kept me on course when I was flailing in every direction. I could not have finished this story without you.
> 
> Inspired by 1960s era comic book canon and set between the years 1947-1980. Donald Blake’s and Thor’s first appearance was in “Journey Into Mystery” # 83, August 1962. I synced this story with that timeline as I needed the stretch of 30+ “Midgardian years” to tell this story. 
> 
> Note: I was reading Marvel comics when Donald Blake was Thor’s “secret identity”. When I came up with the idea for this story I could not remember what caused his disability. I did a lot of google searching and found that while character of Donald Blake has been frequently retconned and rebooted, I could not find any canonical explanation as to why he needed to use a cane. At this point I decided, whatever the actual canon, I would choose a specific reason for his disability. (And if anyone knows the canonical cause of Blake’s disability, could you let me know?)

_Asgard_

The first time Mother took her place on _Hliðskjálf_ as Queen Regent, a day after Odin had collapsed into the Odinsleep, only Loki had accompanied her – even the Einherjar were kept outside the locked great throne room, doors spelled to open only to her or Loki’s touch.  There, Gungnir in hand, she had taken her seat.  Her eyes, already wide, had gone far-seeing, and her face assumed a grave expression.

When her vision had cleared and she focused again on Loki, she said, “I will call for a meeting with the _Alþingi_.  We will hear their council.  Laufey King is amassing his forces and building weapons.  He knows quite well I will be watching him.  He is not such a one to think Asgard helpless with my husband in the Odinsleep.  But he would be a fool not to strike when he believes us at our weakest.”

“Will you bring back Thor from exile?”  Loki was careful to keep all emotion out of his voice.  His mother was always too perceptive.  Inwardly – after the initial shock of Thor’s exile and the revelation of his parentage, after he’d gotten used to the idea of being without his brother – he began considering how for once fortune could well favor him.  He kept telling himself he truly did not miss the great oaf.  He reminded himself of his brother’s slights and insults, of the way he had always claimed all the credit for their successes in battle while dismissing Loki’s contributions to their victories.

But sometimes during the dark hours at night, he missed Thor.  He tried to tell himself it was just the sex, but what he found himself remembering most often were their quiet conversations in the dark, or those moments when Thor held him tightly in his arms and they’d fallen asleep together, just as they had for most of their lives.  Though he’d often sought risk or solitude, when he wanted companionship it was always with Thor.  They’d had such fun!  He could convince Thor to go along with almost any scheme he came up with and Thor enjoyed their escapades – if not the consequences the times they’d been caught.  He missed the ease of companionship with the only other one who shared the all that it meant to be a prince of the House of Odin, the only relationship he had where no barrier of status lay between him and the other person.

Except he was Prince of the House of Odin only by the All Father’s fraud.  But with Odin still asleep and with Thor gone he could step away from Thor’s shadow and into the light. 

That is, unless Mother brought Thor back from Midgard.

“No,” she said.  “The King’s order stands; I cannot countermand it.  Moreover, I cannot remove the spell he placed.  Thor will live a mortal life, with no memory of who he is, until he proves himself worthy.”  For a moment her voice slipped to betray sorrow.  “But…” her expression turned to steady resolve again.  “We need strategy now, not the brute force which caused this problem.  Much as I love your brother,” her gaze forbade him to deny that word, “I know full well that intelligence and guile are as much a part of war as force of arms.  And those things,” she said as she rose, “are your gifts.  Make good use of them, my son.  Do as you have always done for your father.” 

She fixed him with her gaze.  _Your brother, my son, your father._ Loki, certain she knew he had been about to deny kinship, didn’t protest the words though they sent a tangled frisson of rejection and pain lancing through him. 

“Work done in the shadows wins more wars than battles,” she continued.  “Despite what your brother and so many Asgardians think.”  She began descending the stairs.  “For now, I will call for regular hearings of petitioners.  All must go on as always in Asgard, lest any of our allies or enemies think us weak.”

He walked beside her as she headed toward the great doors.  She gave him a sidelong glance.  “You will be with me at the hearings.  Listen, and give me your counsel.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly.  _Would you ask me thus, if you knew I was the one who let the Jötnar in?_   He kept his face still.  Those words would never cross his lips. 

No one would ever know it had been he who had been responsible for this debacle, for Thor’s exile, for the impending war.  Now – with Thor out of the way – now was his chance to prove himself as worthy as Thor had ever been.

The vast doors opened at Frigga’s touch and she walked regally out, Loki by her side, the Einherjar closing protectively around them as they headed to their private chambers.

*****

As the Jötnar ambassador and his party arrived in the feasting hall, Loki, standing behind the High Table besides his mother, kept his face aloof and proud, a careful mask concealing the chill within.  He felt barely able to move, to speak, as the monsters approached.  His muscles felt as locked and rigid as if he were still made of the same icy material as they.  It took every bit of his will to prevent himself from looking down at his hands, to check, as he had obsessively checked over the last many days after the Jötunn’s touch, after touching the Casket, that they were still the correct color.

Frigga, standing behind him, showed a warm and welcoming face to the Jötnar as they were officially presented.  Ambassador Thrivaldi bowed with exactitude to degree of tilt of head and lowering of gaze, clearly familiar with Asgardian protocol.  Frigga glowed with good will as she made a pretty welcoming speech, which the Ambassador returned with thanks precisely stated in formal terms.

_Savages_ , Loki thought, watching them closely.  He swallowed, repelled by the lines snaking over their skins, their blue skin making him think of poisoned corpses.  _Disgusting._   He kept his face carefully attentive.

The Jötnar party were shown to their table and the feast began, an event worthy of the highest nobility, with every Jötnar dish and honor Frigga knew to give. 

The ambassador and his party kept to their table the entire time, remaining mostly silent even amongst themselves, and watched the Aesir closely.  The Aesir at the feast kept up polite conversation at their own tables, studiously correct in their manner should one pass by the Jötnar table.  The Queen had made it quite plain her sorcerous penalty for any show of animosity or offering of insult, necessary in these unsettled times, with no King on the throne, war looming ever closer, and everyone on edge.  She’d softened the threat with honey, reminding them her husband would surely wake soon, and it would be best to have a plan to ensure Asgard’s victory already in place.  He would be certain to appreciate their loyalty to her.

Frigga had ordered a great deal of entertainment to make sure any lapses in conversation didn’t extend into uncomfortable pauses.  Dancers and bards performed old tales having nothing to do with warfare of any kind.  The Jötnar watched, their faces expressionless, only occasionally trading innocuous comments among themselves, per Heimdall’s report after the feast was over.

Later, after they had been escorted to the recently re-opened palace wing meant for Jötnar guests, Loki joined Frigga in her private chamber, and at her gesture sat down at a table opposite her and accepted a glass of wine.

“Ambassador Thrivaldi – is he one of Laufey’s blood?”  _One of my blood,_ he did not say, and resented the understanding gleam in her eye.

“No.”  Her affectionate expression was entirely too knowing.  “He is a high noble, but none of your kin.”

_Kin._   That word now tasted like ash.  He held himself still, resisting the urge to get up and pace.  All too clearly now he understood Thor’s need for action.  He wanted them all dead.  But there were better ways.  Subtler ways.  Finally, he asked the question he’d been biting back.  “The one who touched me on Jotunheim and revealed the truth to me – what if another saw?”

“They would not have withheld this knowledge for so long.  No one knows.”  She laid a hand on his arm.  “Loki.  Son.  No one needs to know.  Nothing has changed.”

“Never,” he agreed.  “No one must ever know.”  And when he found a way to destroy them all, there was no risk he’d ever be revealed for who he truly was.

*****

Ambassador Thrivaldi presented his demands the next day in diplomatic but hard language.  The Queen then presented her terms.  The silence in the Council chamber was shocking after his departure.  Then, all the Counselors attempted to speak at once.

Queen Frigga raised her hand.  “Leave us,” she said, and they carefully backed out of the chamber. As soon as they were safely alone, she turned toward Loki.  “They will not accept my offer.”

“No,” he replied.  “Nor will we accept theirs.”  Frigga had instantly rejected their first offer, the execution of Thor, and the execution of 10 Asgardians for every Jötunn slain on their ill-fated trip to Jotunheim.  Instead she had made a counter offer to pay weregeld in the amount of ten times the weight of each slain Jötunn in gold.

“The game will be a long one,” Frigga observed, taking out a _hnefatafl_ board.  She set out the pieces, arranging the red pieces around the king piece, huddled together at the center board, with the white opposing pieces grouped equally on all four sides.  “Your choice.  Will you take the lesser force and the protection of the King, or the greater attacking force?  The red, or the white?”

He reached for the board, his hand hovering over the red pieces, the side defending the king.  In the past he had preferred playing the red, though Mother had often insisted he play the attacking force as well, as it was necessary to learn both sides in order to achieve true mastery of the game.  He stared down at the king piece, then, angered at the crumbs Odin had always thrown him while Thor had feasted, he looked up at his mother.

“The white,” he said. 

She lifted her eyebrows only slightly and he immediately wanted to change his choice.  He should have lied about his feelings by choosing the red.  But no, he told himself.  He didn’t care. 

They sat to play.  But her assessing gaze had left him unsettled, and he went on the attack ferociously and recklessly.  She, for her part, played a calm and measured game, and far too soon her King had reached the safety of the perimeter and he resentfully conceded defeat.

And thought of Thor, exiled to Midgard, his memory taken from him, now embodied as a mortal child.

And decided to pay him a visit.


	2. Chapter 2

_Midgard, North America, 1947_

There he was, his blond hair shining in the sun.  Thor’s hair was cut as short as a babe’s, as was apparently Midgardian fashion.  Even that was a shock.  Before, the first time he had been this age – and what an odd thought that was − Thor’s hair had fallen past his ears.  Having his hair cut like this – it was unmanly.  Even for a young boy.  It already implied unworthiness.

Loki smiled at that happy thought.

The child limped along the tree-lined hardened pathway, dead leaves drifting across the sun-dappled squares before and behind him.  A heavy metal contraption affixed to one leg impeded his movements. 

Loki, concealed by a glamour, stood beneath a leafy tree, watching Thor approach.  When Mother had learned of this, she called the metal thing on his leg a “brace” and, her calm finally broken, in a voice filled with fury railed at Odin’s punishment, which had subtleties of cruelty that Loki was only now beginning to appreciate.  But Odin slept on, unresponsive to her recriminations.

Unbidden, an image came to mind of him and Thor, as young boys, racing through the forest in the mountains behind the palace, laughing in glee at the sheer freedom of running flat out in the race to be first.

This child was having difficulty simply walking.

Loki took an unplanned step forward, then stopped, even though he knew the child couldn’t see him.  Wouldn’t recognize him even if he did. 

At that thought something cold and barbed gripped his gut; a savage clawing of malice and shock and glee and spite and – something else, something unnamed, something unsettling, something he refused to look at. 

The child lifted his head, familiar blue eyes suddenly focused in his direction.  Looking directly at his face.

He froze, absolutely still.  Had his glamour failed?

But no – the child looked away, around, past him.  And his glance never returned to Loki’s face.

It was amazing how quickly the child had grown so tall.  The last time he looked in on Thor on Midgard, an instant ago – no, eight of their years – this child had been but a mewling babe, fresh of mind, mortal in all regards.

But yes, mortal.  Fast growing.  Fast living. 

Fast dying.

He had best visit more often, lest Thor die without him knowing.

Would he?  Would the AllFather let his favored son die?  Unless he woke from the Odinsleep soon, it might happen.  Mortals faced many dangers.  They dropped dead from insignificant causes.  The brace, the limp, already showed Thor had experienced damage in his brief mortal life here.  Would some insignificant mortal accident carry him off before he had a chance to prove himself worthy?  Or could he even prove himself worthy if Odin were not awake to judge and rescind his sentence?

Thor.  Dead.  He’d never intended this. He tried to ignore the chill that clenched in his gut.  He’d never intended anything this serious, when he had ruined Thor’s coronation.  And now...

The child walked on, but an ugly chorus followed him.

“DON-ULD!  DON-ULD!”  Loki looked to the right, but the owners of the voices were not visible from his vantage point.  He made to move, but first looked back at Thor.  The child looked over his shoulder, then tried to move faster, stumbled, caught himself and limped on.

There was fear in his eyes.

Loki did not remember _ever_ seeing fear in Thor’s eyes.

“DON-ULD!  GIMP!  SISSY!”

The owners of the shouting voice came closer.  Loki saw them now, five pale-skinned boys, dressed in simple shirts and trousers.  Their faces were ugly with hate and spite; their gaze focused on their prey.

Thor – no, his mortal name was Donald Blake - kept walking, kept glancing over his shoulder as his hunters prowled closer like a wolf pack, screaming out their taunts.

Finally, directly in front of the door of a small white dwelling, the boy turned and faced his adversaries.

Finally, a look Loki recognized on his face.  A look he’d seen often, the few times anyone – usually Odin – ever impeded Thor from doing something he wanted to do.  Defiance.  Anger. 

“Filthy dirty crip!”  The largest boy stepped forward, face contorted with sadistic glee. 

Donald brought up his fists – and the boys were upon him.

They knocked him to the ground and began raining blows on him.  Loki sucked in a breath, wanting to revel in Thor’s suffering, but without even thinking he crooked a finger.

Crack!  A sudden breeze blew up and a branch broke loose from one of the trees, falling directly upon three of Thor’s assailants who began yelling and struggling.

“What’s going on out there?”  A door flung open and a woman in a dress and apron stepped onto the porch.  She directed a furious glare at the boys who had now managed to dislodge the branch and struggle to their feet.  They were still shouting, but now it was sounds of pain, and two of them were hugging their arms to various parts of their bodies, faces and arms scratched and bleeding.

“Roger, William, George – you two!” she pointed at the two other boys who had turned and were sprinting down the street.  “Your mothers are going to hear about this!”

The other three took off in the opposite direction, splitting up and disappearing out of sight between trees and houses.

The woman descended three steps and walked out to where Donald was struggling to his feet.  She held out a hand.  Loki watched, waiting for the outraged rejection of the offer of help.  But the young boy took her hand and with her help levered himself to his feet.  His face was dirty and his nose was bloody.  He began brushing his clothes free of leaves and dirt. 

“I’ll call your mother,” the woman offered, handing him a small white square cloth, which he held to his nose.

Donald shook his head.  “I’m OK, Mrs. Harris,” he insisted, his voice slightly distorted by the injury to his nose. 

“Well, let me clean you up anyway.”

“Well, OK,” he said, and the woman and Thor disappeared inside the house.

Loki stayed in the shadow of the nearest tree, looking at the mortal dwelling, vision more focused on his thoughts.  _Now you know how it feels._

Knife-sharp memories, always so close to the surface, reared up, as vivid as if he had just lived them yesterday.

They’d been sparring in a private courtyard.  Sif had declared herself a shield-maiden, and to their amusement insisted on training with their masters.  Finally, feeling herself ready, she had challenged them all over the course of several days, and lost every fight.  But this time –

This time, she had challenged Loki, and, overconfident, despite his knowledge he wasn’t good at swordplay, he’d accepted after seeing how easily the others had defeated her.

Which is how he had wound up on the ground moments later, her sword at his throat.

Volstagg had burst out laughing.  “Best not try that again where anyone can see,” he said intemperately.  “A Prince of Asgard, brought low by a woman.”  Fandral had howled and made a lewd joke at his expense.  Even Hogun had smiled.

And Thor. 

A smile had quirked Thor’s mouth, and Loki, burning with humiliation, wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his brother’s perfect lips.

Sif, preening, strutted around flashily displaying her sword, and favored him with a wide white grin.  “Another round?”

And they were at it again, metal clanging against metal, until a sudden maneuver struck sparks off his vambrace and sent shockwaves up his right arm.  Enraged, he twisted the fingers on his left hand into a complicated gesture, and Sif shouted and jumped back, looking down in horror at the green snakes twining up her body.

Thor had hauled him to his feet and shaken him.  The snakes vanished, and Sif and the others began shouting imprecations at him for his tricksterish, womanish ways. 

Now, here on Midgard, it was Thor others mocked and taunted.  Thor.  Not him.

He felt a vicious satisfaction at seeing Thor brought so low; Thor, whose arrogance knew no bounds; Thor who had led them to their disastrous defeat on Jotunheim. 

Thor.  His brother.  Now, by Odin’s hands, a lowly mortal, paying for all his crimes − crimes Loki had led him to.  His mind carefully veered around his culpability. _I did it to prove to all of them he was not ready.  And I was right.  He was not ready.  But now –_

His mind was drawn unwillingly to the recent past.

The coronation.  His goading of Thor, so easy to manipulate him.  But his plans kept going wrong – the death of the guards in the vault, his message to the guard for Odin’s benefit not reaching Father in time.  The disaster on Jotunheim.  The shock of the sight of his arm, turning blue.  The return – and Father’s words, in the face of Thor’s insolent defiance, now that Loki – and Thor himself – had proved definitively he was unworthy of the kingship.

Odin’s punishment – to banish Thor to live among the Folk, that he might learn humility.  Odin himself had journeyed among the Folk in disguise many long centuries ago, but Loki was entirely certain it had not been to learn humility.

But the cruelty of the Allfather’s punishment had astonished him and had sent Mother into a furious and terrified rage.  Mother’s words, with Loki in the shadows listening, “How can you do this to him?  Strip him of his memories, his very identity!  How can this achieve your goal?”

“Arrogance such as his must be brought low.  He is unworthy of the kingship until he becomes a man, not a shallow boy.”

_Why did it have to come to this before you noticed?_ Loki had thought, but kept his silence, willing now to stay in the shadows which had formerly been a prison to him. 

Mother, however, could not be appeased.  “What if he dies?  Alone among the mortals, his spirit lost to Valhalla forever!”

“I am certain,” Odin had said, each word falling like a portentous weight on Loki’s ears, “that he will find some way to regain his honor and return, ready then to take his rightful place.”

_Rightful place,_ Loki had thought bitterly, mind already churning with plans, remembering Odin’s promise in his childhood, _You were both born to be kings._

Born to be kings.  Now he understood only too well what the Allfather had meant.

Now he knew, without doubt, he was the monster everyone already believed him to be.  Fath- Odin was asleep.  Mother was Regent, he acting as her viceroy.  And the Realm Eternal continued on, in an unsettled, watchful way, while Mother and he and the Council waited for the response from the monsters to Asgard’s counterproposal to their demands for Thor’s death, and the death of hundreds of Aesir as weregeld for the loss of so many of their warriors.  The Jötnar had no idea where Thor was.  Odin’s spell of banishment had also blinded all but Thor’s family and closest friends to his whereabouts. 

How Laufey imagined they would ever turn Thor over to them was beyond Loki’s comprehension.  When Odin awoke, his rage would be vast.  And what if Odin never awoke?  That thought, heavily burdened with greed and disbelief and remorse for even thinking it, had been intruding into Loki’s mind more and more often as time went by.

If Odin never awoke, did Laufey think Loki would be a weaker king? 

If so, Loki would soon challenge that belief, to his sire’s sorrow.

Thoughts of the retaliation he would take against his sire pleased him, and he was still smiling when the door to the mortal dwelling opened again, and the blond boy stepped out.  Face washed, looking tidy, he went down the few steps.  The woman stopped at the edge of the porch.  “Be careful.”

The blond boy looked over his shoulder and shrugged.  “OK, Mrs. Harris.”  There was a thread of resentment in his voice, which made Loki smile.

He cast a quick illusion over himself.  Then, looking like the boy he had been a few centuries before, he stepped out from the cover of the tree and began following Thor along the hard pathway.  He kept his pace slow, matching Thor’s limping walk, until they had passed several more mortal dwellings and Thor turned onto another road, equally tree-lined. 

He allowed himself to catch up.  Thor suddenly threw a quick look over his shoulder, then turned, a look of cautious apprehension fading into instant delight.  Something sharp and painful and pleasurable tugged inside Loki’s chest at that expression.  He wanted suddenly to accept that look of welcome, pretend nothing had never happened, that it had all been a game, an amusement, and now they could go back to the palace, go home, and find new games to play.

Thor stopped, turned completely around to face Loki.  “Hi!  What you doing here? I haven’t seen you in – ”A look of puzzlement swamped the boy’s face, and the returning smile froze on Loki’s lips.  “I’m sorry,” Thor continued.  “I thought you were – I thought – ”  He stopped, frowning.  “Never mind.   I haven’t seen you before – are you new here?”

The bitter cold that swept over Loki’s heart sparked anger.  Thor deserved his punishment.  But not to know him − not to know his own brother. 

He had thought he’d enjoy this.  So why was there this strange twisting in his gut?  Though Odin’s sentence had been clear and explicit, had some part of him truly not believed that Thor wouldn’t recognize him?

No, he told himself.  This disappointment was only because it wasn’t much use enjoying the Allfather’s sentence on Thor if Thor didn’t even know he was being punished.  “I’m just visiting,” he said with a smooth and easy smile.

Thor looked at him with curiosity.  Loki knew his glamour was perfect; he was wearing the same sort of clothing Thor was wearing, the other boys were wearing – simple trousers and shirt.  “What’s your name?” Thor asked.

Loki paused and cast a simple cantrip.  “Loki,” he said.

“Luke,” Donald repeated, and Loki mentally savored the taste of that new word, his new Midgardian name, and smiled.  “I’m Donald,” the boy stated.

Loki choked on a laugh as the Allspeak translated the meaning of the Midgardian name:  _Ruler of the realm.  Great chieftain._   Another cruel twist to the Allfather’s sense of humor.  The great Thor, now a crippled mortal child, saddled with an ironic name.  Or, he thought with a twist of bitterness, the name held Odin’s hopes for Thor’s redemption.  An aspiration and a goal, not an insult.

“Who are you staying with?”

“My aunt.”  Loki could imagine her now, Mother’s older sister on Vanaheim, her hair a cloud of silver only loosely confined by a few ties, who on the rare occasions she had come to court in his childhood smiled and gave him treats and told him fascinating stories.  Sometimes Thor would join them, if he was there and not out roughhousing.

“Oh,” said Donald.  “Maybe I know her?  Where does she live?”

“Down that way,” Loki vaguely pointed, “then to the right.  Two or three roads over.”

“Laurel Street?” Donald said, and Loki nodded yes.  “How long are you staying for?”

“I don’t know,” Loki said.  “They haven’t said.”  He glanced down at the brace enclosing Thor’s – Donald’s – leg, and decided to be direct, as children are direct.  “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Donald looked ashamed and glanced at the ground before looking up defiantly.  “I got sick.  I felt really bad and then I couldn’t move my leg.”

“What could cause that?” Loki asked, bewildered. 

“Polio.”  He spat the word like a curse.  “Poliomyelitis,” he said carefully, his eyes searching Loki’s face for a reaction he clearly wasn’t getting.

“A mort− illness?” Loki asked, suddenly remembering the Folk were subject to strange ills of the body caused by the microscopic creatures in their realm.

Donald looked at him strangely.  “Are you from another country?”

“Yes,” Loki answered.

“Where?” Donald gave him an eager smile. 

Loki thought about the last mortal kingdom he’d been in, a few centuries ago.  “ _Noregr_ ,” he said, hearing the Allspeak translate the name to “Norway.”

“Wow – what’s it like?”

Loki thought of the crude mortal dwellings he’d seen on his last visit to Midgard, utterly unlike the dwellings in this village.  He decided to update his description and quickly described a place much like where they were now, except with mountains.

Donald’s eyes were wide with awe.  “I’d love to go places like that one of these days.  If I could.”  There was clear envy in his voice, which made Loki smile.  Then Thor’s face filled with sadness.  “Are you a…” he paused, clearly struggling for a word, “…war refugee?”

_Whatever did he mean by that?_ Loki wondered.  “No,” he said shortly, and Donald’s face cleared.  “I saw those boys that hurt you,” Loki went on.  “I was going to come over but that woman came out and took you inside.”  He paused for a moment.  “Why do they call you dirty?”

“Don’t you know?” Donald scowled.

“I wouldn’t ask if I knew,” Loki pointed out.

“My parents said it wasn’t my fault – my getting sick - but those kids say it is.”  Anger and shame warred in Donald’s voice.  “That’s why I want to be a doctor one of these days!  I want to find a cure!”

Loki stared at the boy in shock.  A doctor?  A mortal healer?  “Surely not!”  Such a profession was only for women.  How could even a _mortal_ boy aspire to such things? 

_Just as he had aspired to unmanly things himself, just as he had felt the warrior’s role never one for him?  But Thor! Aspiring for unmanly accomplishments?_  

Donald’s eyes flared with anger and his face twisted into an ugly and only-too-familiar scowl, one he’d been on the receiving end of far too often when one of his tricks had backfired on him.  “Do you think I can’t do it?  I **can**!”  He took a half step forward then caught his balance and his face flushed darker with rage.  His hands had formed into fists.  It was just like it always was − Thor was quick to anger, ready to commit violence over any insult, any slight to his manhood, his will.

“I never said you couldn’t.”  But Loki couldn’t keep a hint of irony out of his voice.

Donald’s eyes were hard with suspicion.  “I better be getting home.” He turned and limped down the street.

Loki stood still, watching his figure disappear into the distance, thinking over Thor’s strange mortal words and ideas.  The way he looked… Had it been so very many centuries ago when Thor was that same height?  Thor had been taller than he, already stocky with muscle, hair almost to his shoulders, already showing the skill with practice swords that Loki had yet to attain.  They had played so many games, Thor particularly favoring “Hunt the Bilgesnipe.”  They’d snuck out of the palace and into the hills behind, tracking their imaginary prey down a winding ravine thick with trees and undergrowth.  The ravine widened into a flatter expanse of land populated with widely spaced evergreens.  It was bounded on one side by a huge granite boulder, which, at a certain angle, resembled the head of a raptor.

How Thor had yelled when he’d played a long-practiced trick.  There it was, first the crashing sounds echoing through the forest, then the illusion of a bilgesnipe charging right at them!

But Thor, foolhardy, raised up his practice sword and faced the towering creature dead on, shouting taunts and threats as it hurtled directly toward him, slavering jaws open, antlered head bowed to impale his flesh.

And Loki, grinning, threw a flash of fire at his own creation, made it appear the beast was terrified of his power and sent it crashing off into the woods.

Thor turned to him, round-eyed.  “Loki!  I almost had it!”

Loki grinned.  “Wait around, brother.  It may return.”

Thor, already starting off in the creature’s direction, paused to look at the unmarked ground and the undamaged trees ahead of him.  He turned back to Loki, eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “That was one of your tricks, wasn’t it?”

Loki had grinned triumphantly.  “The best yet!”  Then ran like the wind as Thor tried to tackle him, weaving, winding, dodging, tumbling, chortling, leaping over obstacles, cackling all the time while his brother shouted imprecations and threats.  He shimmied up a tree, Thor following, but his brother was too heavy.  Thor unwisely climbed up one branch too many and, with a sharp crack and a flurry of leaves, Thor and half the branch fell to the ground below.  Winded for a moment, but not for long, Thor began shouting at him again, promising all kinds of revenge, while Loki had grinned and sent a bunch of tiny illusions of dragons zooming around Thor’s face like a swarm of gnats, then hooted with laughter as Thor tried to slap the insubstantial creatures away.

Thor finally got tired and left, and Loki had slipped back to the palace, making a detour to the library where he spent several hours.  He was not in the least surprised to find a bunch of road apples in his bed later on.  It was no effort to wave them magically away, and it gave him even more pleasure to think of Thor mucking around in the stables and then carrying a bag full of manure all the way through the palace.

Now Thor, in his mortal guise, aspired to women’s work.  He would not have believed it – did not believe it.  Surely this was a passing fancy, and Thor would aspire to more manly things as he grew.  Loki watched until Thor turned and disappeared inside a dwelling almost identical to the one the mortal woman had taken him inside.  “Sentiment,” he whispered, angry at himself for indulging in useless memories of what had been lost and could not be regained.  And vanished.


	3. Chapter 3

_Asgard_

Still shaking all over, still half in the grip of nightmare, Loki pulled himself out of bed and stared down at his hands.  Were they blue?  In the darkness of night, with the colors of the vast nebula over Asgard’s skies casting strange light into his sleeping chamber, he couldn’t determine the color of his skin.  Propelled by panic he called up lights.  He kept staring at the sight of his pale skin, convinced that this illusion would vanish as he stared at it.

Nothing changed.  And slowly the tremors died away.

He went out to the balcony, gripped the balustrade and stared out at the Bifrost, his gaze helplessly drawn to where, somewhere unseen in the vastness of space, Jotunheim revolved around its dying star.

The nightmare images replayed in his mind, as vivid as reality.  Himself, naked and Jötunn blue, fleeing across the ice, while an army of Asgardians on horseback, Thor at their head, followed him in flat-out pursuit, preceded by a pack of baying hounds.  The warriors roared threats and the hounds never ceased their howling.

He reached the edge of a chasm, stopped and turned. They were almost upon him now and, nearly deafened by their triumphant yells, he looked frantically in all directions.   There, to the side, up that escarpment – if he could make to the top, he could get into the cave system beyond.

But, turning, he slipped and fell backwards and though he dug fingers tipped with ice blades deeply into the frozen ground it hadn’t been in time.  His body hit the cliffside, fingers gripping the very edge.  He looked up to find Thor looming above him.  Their eyes met.

“Help me, brother!” he cried, his head tilted as far back as he could make it go.

But Thor stared down at him as if he’d never seen him before.  “I will slay all the monsters!” he roared, and raised Mjolnir high −

Loki came back to himself and realized he was gripping his arms so tightly, his fingers digging into the biceps so deeply he could feel bone. 

He forced himself to relax by infinitesimal degrees.  He let his arms fall to his sides.  “When I am King,” he whispered into the night air, “I will hunt the monsters down and slay them all…”

*****

He was being watched.  Loki was sure of it.  The knowledge of the horror that lay beneath his skin haunted his every moment.  Someone knew.  He was certain of it.  His body felt stiff and strange now, as if it didn’t belong to him; his muscles tense; his smile frozen.  When he walked through the court, spoke with the nobles and the warriors, were they looking at him differently?  Did they suspect something was wrong?  Did they suspect he wasn’t one of them after all?  That he was the monster the tales all told of?

 _They couldn’t know,_ he told himself.  They couldn’t, or they would have torn him to shreds by now.

He avoided mirrors.  He kept his face aloof and princely when out of his chambers, greeting people stiffly and formally, worried by the odd looks they gave him in return even as they replied with all proper court formality.

He tried to keep a good face on in the presence of his mother, but well she knew of his fears, or some of them at least.  “We cannot know what will happen with my husband and your brother,” and that was the way she always said it, careful to say “your brother,” and not “my son,” for of course Thor was her only true son.  “But,” she continued, “all will be well if we remain calm and follow a steady course.  Times have changed, for the Jötnar as well as ourselves, and we need not remain bound to the events and hatreds of the past.  It was not always thus, this enmity between our peoples, and done correctly, we can have true peace again.” 

But when she didn’t think he saw, he caught glimpses of the worried look in her eyes.  Despite her reassurances he felt alone in a way he never had before.  He missed Thor in ways he hadn’t expected.  He had thought he’d be glad the oaf was gone, giving him this unexpected chance to shine, to prove himself worthy to the people of Asgard, but this constant fear drained him.  The absence of Thor by his side, both out in public and in Thor’s bed, bit keenly at him.  He liked being alone, he told himself.  It was simpler that way.  But without his brother he felt wrong, unbalanced, and that surprised and frightened and irritated him.   It made him angry.  If Thor hadn’t acted as he did – if he hadn’t been so reckless – things could still be the way they had been, when they were young and had enjoyed a less complicated love, a purer emotion only starting to become marred by threads of envy and jealousy.

Still, time passed.  As they waited for Laufey’s reply all the ordinary demands of Asgardian governance carried on.  “Listen and give me your counsel,” mother had said, and so he had done, for the first few quick years after Thor’s banishment and the All-Father’s descent into the Odinsleep.  The petitioners came every month on the appointed day.  Loki and Frigga listened to their petty grievances, the Queen asking pointed questions, and after the last petitioner had gone they would retire to the Queen’s chamber to discuss the cases.  She had taken his advice but had announced their decisions herself.

Until the day came, when she told Loki, “Today, it is you who will question the petitioners.”

He gave her a startled look, but did as she commanded.  When the first petitioners arrived and Loki questioned them regarding their case – a dispute about property – they both gave their testimony to him with narrowed eyes and frequent glances to the Queen.  The Queen, for her part, merely watched, and the next day, when Loki delivered the verdict he had arrived at, with her agreement, the two men had accepted the judgment as fair, but the guarded looks they gave indicated each felt they would have had a better chance with the queen.  And their words of thanks were flat and lifeless compared to the effusive thanks given to the queen. 

Ice settled around his heart.  Loki noted their names, and thought of Thor, with his puny mortal concerns on Midgard, and thought that no matter how ill-considered Thor’s verdict might have, no doubt blurted out thoughtlessly, Thor would have received many times more gratitude than Loki had done.

Oh yes, he heard all the whisperings.  _If only Thor were here he would force the Jötnar to show us the respect we deserve.  If only Thor were here all this business would be finished.  And with the Allfather still asleep, it was more than past time for Thor to take the throne.  A regency was not meant to last this long – how long would the Odinsleep last?  How long would it be before Thor reclaimed his throne and sent the lesser prince into the background, where he belonged?_

He heard these words and wrapped his hurt and anger around him like another layer of armor, willing his heart to go cold and hard.  But inside he seethed, and in his anger decided it was time to pay Midgard a visit again.

 

_Midgard, North America, 1963_

There he was.  How fast the mortals grew!  It had only been a span of a few years on Asgard, but in those years the child had grown to a man.  He already looked nearly identical to Thor as he had approached his coronation.  Still young, the man walked along the flat walkway, sunlight gleaming in his golden hair.  His hair had been cut even shorter then before!  Loki’s hands curled with the tactile memory of how much he had loved to run his fingers through Thor’s hair.  Why if Blake cut much more off he would be bald!

And beardless!  Thor, without one of the most important signifiers of Asgardian manhood – one which Loki and others _seiðmenn_ lacked.

He liked the sight of Thor without a beard.  Another sign of his unmanliness.  He smiled in satisfaction, picturing a beardless Thor in Asgard.  How everyone would laugh. 

Midgardians had very strange ideas.  Whenever Loki could take brief periods of time away from  his duties, he had been travelling around Midgard, motivated by curiosity to know more about his brother’s current home.  He had visited various parts of this realm to familiarize himself with their customs, which were many and varied and usually confusing.  The more he observed of mortal behavior the less he understood it.  There were so many of them, and they had so many different ways of living.

Invisible, he followed Thor down the street.  Though Thor no longer had the metal contraption attached to his left leg, he used a stick with a curved top for his hand to help him walk, the weakness in the limb obvious.  And he was so slight of build!  Why, he himself now outshone Thor in every physical way.  Even as he gloated over that thought, comparing Blake’s underdeveloped body to his memories of Thor’s perfection, it gave him a small pang of uneasiness.  He wondered what it would be like, to have Blake’s hands touch him in desire.  What would it be like, to be with him as Blake was now, slender and vulnerable?

He wondered what it would be like to take, instead of be taken.  His groin tightened at the thought.  He had not lain with anyone in many years, too afraid of what revelation a bedmate might find in the darkness of night.  And though he knew the fear was irrational – he had never changed into Jötunn form before or since Jotunheim and the revelation in the Vault – he still woke at night fearfully convinced his skin had gone blue and that he’d never be able to change it back.

He missed the feeling of Thor’s body against his, Thor’s mouth claiming his, Thor’s possessive hands on his body, those big firm hands stroking his cock, making him spill in ecstasy.  He had long ago given way to Thor’s pleadings that Loki use his mouth on Thor’s cock, and he had enjoyed that once he’d figured out the best way to control Thor’s ruttings and made an art form of it with lips and teeth and tongue and throat.  He had long since given way to Thor’s pleadings to do that which was most forbidden, to allow Thor to penetrate his ass and in that, too, after the first few times, he’d found great pleasure, the feeling of being claimed and yet owning Thor so completely in those moments it was as if they formed some greater being between them.

Thor, however, had never permitted Loki to enjoy his body the same way.  He would be King of Asgard, he explained, and it was forbidden for him to do these things.  He said it with regret, but Loki saw that as pretense, and if there had ever been anything in Thor’s face to the contrary of what Loki believed, the vaguest hint that Thor might wish things be other than what they were, he took that expression as a lie as well.

He focused again on Thor as the other man paused before a glass-fronted building and reached in his pocket, then opened the door with the use of a piece of metal in a doorway lock.  The lettering on the door read, “Dr. Donald Blake, General Practitioner.”

Casting a glamour of invisibility over himself, he slipped inside to study the premises.  A short, roundfaced, dark-haired woman was seated at a desk, doing something with a metal contraption containing a sheet of paper.  Loki took a closer look.  She was repeatedly pressing at the keys which created Midgardian runes on a rectangular parchment.  Bemused, he realized it was some kind of writing machine.  How quaint.

He slipped inside the room where Thor was seated and over the course of the day Loki observed as a variety of Midgardians of various ages came and discussed various physical complaints with the healer.  They had been shown, at first, to a völva, a woman dressed all in white, a white cap perched on top of her reddish-brown hair.  For each of them, she had taken their wrists and held them for a certain small measure of time, then placed a glass tube inside their mouths, also for a specified length of time.  She had written a few things down and had then escorted them to a separate room, where Thor awaited.

He observed as Thor spoke with them, asked questions, used a strange device dangling from his neck with the ends in his ears to listen to their chests, wrapped another strange band around their arms and using a pump inflated it to achieve Norns only knew what purpose.  Donald had a curious contraption on his head, a round band encircling his skull, with a round attachment above it.  He placed a flat stick inside the mouths of his patients and looked down their throats.

It was all very curious, but he gleaned enough information out of it to present himself at the premises the very next day.

The round-faced woman looked up as he entered.  “May I help you?”  


“I would like to see the doctor,” he said with a pleasant smile.

She looked at him curiously.  “Do you have an appointment?”

“I do not.”

“He is very busy today,” she said doubtfully.  “Perhaps Dr. Brown’s office has an opening?”

“Please,” he said, lending an edge of fear to his voice.  “I have a complaint in my chest and need to see him soon.”

“Well,” she said, looking at him dubiously.  “Your name and address, please?”

He had a Midgardian name prepared – “Luke Furst,” and explained, “I’m a visitor to your town and am residing at the Wright Hotel.”  He actually was not staying at the lodging establishment further down the street, but she wrote it down without question.

“Let me check with the doctor,” she said.  “Please have a seat.”

She re-emerged a moment later.  The woman with the reddish hair and the white garments followed.  “I’m Nurse Foster,” she introduced herself. 

Ingrained respect for one of the völur led Loki to bow his head. 

She looked surprised by the gesture, but her voice was professionally neutral when she said,  “Come with me please.” She led him into a second chamber.  “Please have a seat.”  He took the chair she indicated.  She then did the things he had seen her doing with others, which she called ‘taking his pulse’ and ‘taking his temperature’.  He sensed the quicksilver element inside the glass tube she placed inside his mouth, and when she removed it he attached a spell to it so when she looked at it she would see only what she expected to see.  She studied the tube for a moment, then wrote several words in a book pre-marked with many lines.  “The doctor will be ready to see you shortly.”

Curious, he asked, “How is it that you serve him?  You are a völva, are you not?”

She gave him a baffled look.  “No, I’m not a doctor.  I’m his nurse.”

That word again, which the All-Speak translated poorly.  It contained the implication of healer, but one of lesser status, somewhat similar to an apprentice, but different as well in that it implied that this was the final stage of this profession.  The shades of meaning eluded him.  “I would have expected you to be the healer.  It surprises me to see a man taking such a position.  I am accustomed to women taking this honored role.”

“I can tell you’re not from here,” she said, giving him an amused smile.  “Where on earth are you from, where you have so many women doctors?”

“ _Noregr_ ,” he said. 

She gave him another odd look.  “I’d never heard that.  I guess Norway is very different from here.  Oh yes, there are women doctors here, but it takes a lot of persistence and courage to enter that profession.  It’s a man’s world, after all.”  She glanced at a large round object on the wall, which he understood to be a Midgardian timekeeping device.  “Let me check to see if Dr. Blake is ready to see you.”  She left, taking her book of notes with her.

Mortals had such odd traditions!  He didn’t understand how their lack of ability to use magic would still confer on men the role of women, of the völur, to be healers.  It wasn’t as if Midgardian armies were composed of shield-maidens, either; as much or more so than the Aesir they were composed of men. From what he had observed, Midgardian men seemed to take all professions to themselves, leaving no areas of respect for Midgardian women.

It was a puzzle.

Nurse Foster returned after a few minutes.  “Mr. Furst, the doctor will see you now.” 

He followed her down a short hallway to another chamber.  She opened the door, ushered him inside, and shut the door behind him once he had entered.

Thor, wearing a white coat and dark trousers, was seated at a desk when Loki entered.  He glanced up, a polite, dispassionate smile on his lips before his expression froze.  Loki looked directly into those familiar blue eyes and with one tiny gesture set the memory-restoring spell that he and mother had devised in motion.

Thor stood almost too hastily, and stumbled a bit before regaining his footing.  A look of recognition crossed his face, and suddenly Loki was swamped with hope.  Maybe he’d remember.  Maybe it would be this easy.  Maybe this would all be over and things could go back to the way they had been before.

“Hello!  It’s good to see – ” Thor paused, frowning.  “Have we met?”

“Perhaps,” Loki said, affecting a look of puzzlement, hiding a surge of disappointment.  For a moment he’d been convinced the spell had already worked, that Thor had immediately recognized him.  He reminded himself he needed to give this casting time to work. “But I didn’t recognize your name.”

“I’m sorry.  You look like someone…”  Blake’s voice trailed off and his brows crinkled in puzzlement.  Then, with a slight shake of his head, he collected himself, and when their eyes met again Blake’s eyes didn’t hold the slightest trace of recognition.

Loki’s stomach clenched.  He fought off sadness and focused on his anger as he placed a tight smile on his lips.  Odin’s spell, it seemed, had not lost any of its power.  Would their working be enough?

But – the thought suddenly occurred to him.  **Did** he want Thor to recognize him?  He looked at him speculatively.  In his mortal form, he was so much smaller, but his blue eyes shone as clearly and his hair still looked like it had been spun from gold.  Thor’s magnificent physique was gone, but this slender body and fine bone structure had its own appeal, as if Thor had been born of Alfheim instead. 

It would be utterly different to lie with him like this.  The thought appealed to him.  Thor had sometimes liked using his strength to pin him down, and while part of him had enjoyed having all of Thor’s power focused on him and him alone, what would it be like to take the reverse role?  He could approach this in so many different ways.  Could he seduce this mortal version of Thor?  Could he make Thor want him and allow Loki to have him in ways Thor had never permitted?  How sweet that would be, and then when Thor regained his memory, he would know what they had done.  He would be shamed, of course, but Thor had never seemed to consider the potential shame Loki risked with their couplings.  It was only fitting that Thor take this risk too.

 _Yes_ , he decided.  He smiled at Blake, admiring his clear blue eyes.  He wanted him still, even in this mortal form. And if he could have him… _I only ever wanted us to be equals._  

“Mr. Furst, could you describe your symptoms?”  Blake’s voice was impersonal, professional.

“I felt my heart beating very rapidly, almost leaping in my chest, like a hart through the forest.”

Blake gave him a peculiar look.  “Very poetic,” he murmured, then, louder, “Take off your shirt, please.”

Loki smirked and stripped his shirt off.  “And the rest of my clothing?”

Blake gave him a searching look.  “That can stay in place.”

He held up a round metal object that hung like a medallion from the end of the peculiar apparatus around his neck.  Blake pressed the round piece against his back, then moved it to other positions, on occasion telling him to take deep breaths.  Then he moved back in front of Loki and pressed it to his chest, again choosing several locations, pausing at each with an intense look of concentration and a hint of puzzlement on his face as he focused on whatever it was he was doing.  The object was cold, but what Loki noticed was the presence of Blake’s fingers, so close to his chest, the way his nipples tightened in arousal.  His eyelids fluttered closed as he remembered with tactile clarity how it felt to have Thor’s mouth suckling them.  He gasped out a breath and reopened his eyes.  Blake was looking at him oddly, but when he met his gaze his expression changed to one of dispassion. 

Then Blake looked further down and saw the obvious presence of Loki’s erection pressing hard against the Midgardian trousers he wore.  Blake looked back up at him, stared into his eyes – then took a half step back.  But there was desire in his eyes and Loki gave him a lascivious smile.   

*****

Blake focused, concerned, on the sounds from inside his peculiar patient’s body.  There was something odd about them.  There was definitely a different rhythm to the man’s heartbeat.  It was some sort of arrhythmia but it didn’t really sound like a PVC.  Odd.  Or was he hearing things?  Concerned and puzzled he listened again.  Was that a murmur too?  This man looked too fit to have such a diseased heart. 

He focused his attention on his patient’s intriguing face.  He’d do the rest of the exam and then discuss his findings.  But he hesitated.  From the moment this patient had walked in Blake felt a sense of déjà vu, as if he had known this man somewhere else.  From the raven darkness of his close-cropped black hair that seemed, somehow, as if it should be longer, to the peculiar striking green of his eyes, he had the feeling of familiarity.  But he would know if he had met this man before.  He wouldn’t have forgotten a face like this, all sharp angles and cheekbones and thin mobile lips. 

He kept his professional demeanor, but when he discovered the man looking at him with clear desire, his erection barely restrained by his pants, he took a half step back, feeling an unwanted surge of desire himself.  He covered the movement by settling his stethoscope back down.   There was a sudden flash – those long fingers on his cock, stroking it.  That man, on his knees before him, opening his mouth –

He shook off the unwanted fantasy, almost as vivid as memory, unnerved by his lapse of professionalism.   “I’ll check your blood pressure now.”  He directed the man to sit down by his desk.  Mr. Furst kept his uncomfortable green gaze on him, with a smile of clear invitation on his lips.

Alarm bells rang off in his head.  He’d fought his urges toward other men all his life; forced them down, hidden them away.   Was this some kind of trap?  The police did this, often, though usually in public areas and hidden clubs  – sent someone to entrap a man into a lewd act and then arrest him.  Not in a private office, a place of business.  But what if someone had suspected?  What if he let his gaze linger too long on another man’s body?  Had he – he was horrified at the thought – looked at a patient with admiration instead of professional detachment?  He was sure he had not.  And yet – what if he had?

His name in the paper.  Public exposure.  Disgrace.  Loss of career.  He couldn’t risk this, and he was furious at this man for even trying this trick.

He retrieved the blood pressure cuff and wound it around the other man’s upper arm, that unsettling green gaze on him all the time.  When his fingers accidentally brushed Mr. Furst’s skin and the other man gasped in a tiny intake of breath, it was like an electrical jolt through his entire body.  He was grateful his medical coat was long enough to cover his own erection.

Hands shaking silently, he pumped up the pressure cuff and focused his attention on the readings.  It seemed to take forever, and though he did not look at Mr. Furst’s face, he was all too aware the other man’s gaze had never left him.

Finally, he got the reading, and removed the cuff.  “Your blood pressure is normal, Mr. Furst.  However, I heard something which might be of future concern and would advise you to have a checkup with your regular doctor once you get back home.  I recommend an EKG be done.  I’m afraid we’re too small a town to have one here, but if your own doctor doesn’t have one he should be able to refer you to a nearby hospital.  I’ll write a note for him.  What’s his name?” 

Mr. Furst didn’t seem in the least bit worried about Blake’s findings.  He was still watching Blake, his green eyes alive with interest.  Frowning, Blake stepped back and put the blood pressure cuff away, and cast about for something to say.  “What was happening when you experienced this incident?”

“I…” Mr. Furst’s voice was a low purr, “experienced this last…”  A long pause.  “When someone whose presence I enjoyed very much…”  He paused again, giving Blake a knowing smirk, and Blake turned a furious gaze on him.

Mr. Furst tilted his head and there was a knowing look in his eyes.  “It was in the greenwood on Vanir.”

Where was ‘Vanir’? Blake thought, determined not to ask irrelevant questions.

Mr. Furst waited a moment, then not getting a response, continued.  “We were celebrating, with overmuch mead, his coming coronation.”  He looked at Blake significantly, Blake wondering if he were dealing with a madman, not a police officer.  “But then my heartrate was always thus, when he laid his hands, his lips on me.  When he took me with his manhood – “

“ **Get out**!”  Blake hissed.  “Right now.  Or I’ll call the police.”

Mr. Furst gave him a seductive smile as he buttoned his shirt needlessly slowly, but there was a discordant note of pain in his eyes.  “Remember me,” he whispered with a hint of malice, made a strange gesture with his hands, then strode out the door.

Donald stood absolutely still, with the oddest feeling that somehow something had swirled around his head seeking entrance – and then had been repulsed.

The sound of the door shutting startled him.  He felt agitated, upset, threatened, and strangely, as if he had just experienced a great loss.  That man Luke – what was his last name? 

There it was, dancing around the edges of his memory, fluttering like a distant mirage.  Something important.  He blinked and tried to focus, but the elusive memory retreated - then vanished.

That man – what had his name been?

A moment later, he forgot the man entirely.

*****

Loki strode down the Midgardian street, some place called Copenhagen, chased by a feeling of dissatisfaction.  The spell hadn’t worked.  It had run through, from beginning to end, the magical signature clear, but Odin’s spell, so tightly woven around Thor, had proved impenetrable, to this working at least.

He remembered with pleasure the proof that Thor, even in his mortal guise, desired him.  He had hoped his description of that time on Vanir would reawaken his memories; he’d been ready to magick both of them to Alfheim so they could recreate what they had done there.

He’d been astonished by Thor’s horrified responses to his description of that time on Vanir.  He wondered why Thor had been so furious – almost frightened – in his response to Loki’s suggestions.  Even if the offer came from an unwanted source, what man would so reject such a pleasurable experience in such angry words?  It wasn’t as if he’d asked to make Thor ergi.  Though he fully intended to when the right moment arrived.

His body still thrummed with the remnants of arousal, and he considered going back.  It would be easy enough, with Thor in this state, to bespell him.  He could have him, in this mortal form, in any way he desired.  He knew he could do it, but was it what he wanted?

What he wanted was for Thor to remember him. 

What he wanted – what he most wanted – was that Thor give him what he desired – his willing submission.  He imagined it, Thor beneath him, loving what he did to him, calling out his name in lust and love.

That, he knew, was never going to happen.  Suddenly angered, he made plans to return soon.  And this time, he would find some way of getting what he wanted.

In the meantime, he had other Midgardian cities to explore, a day here, a day there, whenever he could spare the time.  He’d been to many of them already.  Paris.  Timbuktu.  Cairo. Jakarta.  Beijing.  Rio de Janeiro.  Melbourne.  Phoenix.  Such exotic names.  The Midgardians held as much variety within their realm as all the other realms combined.  It must be their fast lives and their even faster breeding.  With so many of them of course they could create and destroy their tiny kingdoms in just the blink of an eye.

But now he must return to Asgard.  The Jötnar ambassador had finally sent word he planned to return with Laufey’s new proposal and would be arriving soon.


	4. Chapter 4

_Asgard_

“I will convey your proposal to our King.”  Ambassador Thrivaldi’s voice was as frigid as his icy world, but his manner remained entirely proper.

“Please convey our wishes that he accept our generous offer.”  Frigga, seated on Hliðskjálf, Loki at her side, gave him a smile perfectly calibrated to demonstrate respect but still containing the implication that her offer was overly-generous and Laufey should certainly seize on it as an end to this impasse.

Laufey King had taken his time with his reply to her first overture of peace; time which Heimdall reported had allowed him to build up his weapons supply from the meager resources Jotunheim possessed.  And still Frigga had waited and taken no action, while tensions kept rising in the court. 

_Thor_ , the people whispered, would have taken action.  _Thor would have taken their army and destroyed all the monsters._

But Loki had sent out subtle whispers among the people.  _Remember the last war.  Remember the sons lost, the husbands slain, yes, all very honorably, but how many more did they want to lose?  This matter could be taken care of without bloodshed.  Why not enjoy their well-earned peace and prosperity?_

And there were those among the populace – tradespeople and artisans, who began to speak about the wisdom of the Queen’s course of negotiation, not war.

Then Laufey King’s ambassador had arrived with his rejection of her offer of weregeld of 100 weight in gold for every Jötunn slain, and made a counter offer:  the execution of Thor and one Asgardian for every Jötunn who had been slain during Thor’s invasion of their realm.

The Queen and Loki had sat with their council and let the Jötnar await their pleasure. 

Then she made her counter offer:  1000 weight in gold for every Jötunn slain. 

So Ambassador Thrivaldi took his leave again.

 

_Midgard, North America, 1968_

Blake didn’t know if the four people dressed flamboyantly in some kind of armor were from a local theatrical production or just some older-than-usual hippies who had raided a costume shop somewhere.  He’d expect to see this kind of thing in New York City, not here in his small hometown many miles north of the metropolis.  When they walked across the hospital’s parking lot heading right toward him he hoped they weren’t looking for a handout.  He had a busy schedule, as always, and didn’t want to be bothered, so he turned to go inside.

“Thor?”  The woman’s voice was insistent, hopeful, and worried all at once.  It was, also, oddly familiar, and he turned back to them. 

“Thor,” the woman said again, looking at him eagerly.  She had a pretty face and lovely long dark hair, and was dressed in some kind of Roman soldier costume.  Both the blond man, clearly attempting to copy the look of an old Errol Flynn movie, and the huge man with red hair and a ridiculously overgrown beard, grinned at him eagerly, while the Oriental man offered a tentative smile. 

 “There’s no one named ‘Thor’ here.”  He gripped his cane tightly.  Maybe they weren’t looking for handouts _,_ but he had such an odd feeling about them.

The huge man stepped forward.  “We’re your friends,” he said, voice and eyes pleading.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wondering what kind of con job they were trying to pull.  “I don’t know you.”

Their expressions fell.  The woman spoke again, her eyes earnest and hopeful.  “I’m Sif, Thor.  We’ve known each other for centuries.”

Either this was a practical joke, maybe even a Candid Camera setup, or else these people were crazy. “Excuse me,” he said, and turned , heading toward the hospital door.

He heard them calling after him, but by the time the door closed behind him the memory was already fading.

It wasn’t long, though, before he had the strong sensation that someone was watching him.  That so-familiar prickle at the back of his neck, that crawling sensation on his skin.  But when Blake turned to look all he saw was the bustle of a busy hospital at work, white-coated doctors and nurses in their uniforms and starched caps, gurneys and IV hookups passing up and down the halls, with no one giving him a second glance. 

It was the feeling that he had when he passed a mirror, that glimpse of someone else’s face inside the glass that wasn’t there when he looked at it directly.

This feeling – which had plagued him at widely separate times in his life – was back now, full force.

And he’d do the same thing he always did.  Ignore it.  He certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone about it.  He had enough burdens to deal with without adding rumors that he might be crazy.

Ignoring the strength of that feeling now, he headed on down the corridor to make his rounds.

*****

As soon as Loki realized he could make a game of it, to view the petitioners as pieces on a game board, he began to find the weekly audience with the citizens entertaining.

The goal, of course, was this: bringing the people to view him as a wise king.  Wiser than Odin, long may he sleep.

Take these two before him now.  The man with a face like a toad, and the scrawny woman dressed in somber grey, some of her white hair caught in a simple bun with the rest falling unrestrained and wild down her back. 

Mother, as always, sat remote and watchful, silent in one of the two elaborately carved chairs in the petitioner’s chamber, chairs that were meant solely for royalty.  Loki sat in the other, and listened to each case with an eye on how best to enhance his reputation.

The two petitioners had attempted to argue their case at length, which he’d put a stop to by asking a few well chosen questions.  It all came down to one simple thing:  Raakeli, a simple hedge witch, had sold the farmer Hródolf a potion guaranteed to increase the yield of his crops.  It hadn’t worked and he had slandered her name and demanded a refund.  She demanded a public apology for his ill words, which were ruining her business.

It was simplicity itself to remind Raakeli - hadn’t there been a blight in her favorite herb-gathering area recently caused by excessive rain?  Surely this had affected the potency of the herbs.  Best to refund half his money, try again, and surely it would be effective this time.  If not, refund the rest.  And, he suggested to Hródolf, that if her new potion worked, surely it would be a favor to her to sing her praises to others in the neighborhood so as to increase her custom.

He could perceive she had some small talent in seiðr, and given good materials she should be able to do the working on her own.  However, just in case her charm wasn’t effective on its own, he would cast a spell which would attach itself to her charm and if hers did not work his casting would give hers a boost to achieve the desired result. 

Then they were gone, and on to the next group.  Loki listened and judged and decided on everything from the rare cases of inheritance issues to fathers displeased with the new interest many of their daughters were showing in becoming shield maidens and what this meant for marriage arrangements, for which they blamed Sif and her lenient parents. 

Overall, the people seemed pleased.  He used his silver tongue to judge cases, saw the complexities beneath the surface, found ways to come to solutions satisfactory to all, and grudging respect turned to the genuine article.  He knew his talents: to manipulate the truth, to give multiple shades and hues to meanings that seemed straightforward.  And when one person came bearing a grievance against another, best to find a way to please them both and win something for Asgard as well.  Why not appear to be wiser than father?  Why not _be_ wiser than father?

All the while he was aware of Frigga’s gaze upon him, her watchfulness reminding him of her training him in childhood in magic.  And now he frequently saw approving looks on her face, exactly as it had been before as a child, when every day had brought new learning, fresh successes, and even his failures had taught him things he could learn from.  She’d had the same encouraging look on her face back then as she did now, and something inside him thawed and warmed under her regard.

Then, one day, he realized he no longer felt like a stranger, sitting on this secondary throne, but felt he was there by right, doing things that Thor simply could never do.

That Thor would never want to do.  But if his brother were to return – he could hear him now, deriding him for wasting time on petty quarrels when they could be out killing Jötnar and  defending the realm from rock trolls and Norn knows what other trouble Thor could find if he searched hard enough. 

And then the people would forget him, and he would be lost again in the shadow of the golden prince.  Who would remember Loki only when he wanted him. 

*****

Thunder roared an instant after a sheet of lightning filled the sky.  Cool air rushed in over Loki’s naked body, a demanding lover’s caress.  “Brother…” Thor’s deep lustful voice, so very close, its timbre sending thrills of desire along his nerves.  His body arched under his brother’s phantom touch, enjoyed the touch of fingers and lips that explored every expanse and convexity and crevice, his skin prickling in goosebumps at each gentle caress, and an equal pleasure, the flow of loving words whispered into his ears, of “beloved”, of “love”, of “I need you so much…”

Loki woke achingly hard, and rolled to one side, already reaching for Thor, tender words ready on his lips.

Thor was not there.  He was alone in the bed. 

Alone, except for dozens of books spread out by the side of the bed Thor normally slept on, his constant bedmates for the last many months, some still open to tantalizing hints about the complexities of the spellwork Odin had crafted. 

He rolled back, clenching his hands in the bedsheets, and stared straight ahead.  Outside the pillars of his chambers, past the lip of the balcony, the vast nebula spread its colors across the sky, its clouds obscuring Yggdrasil’s branches.  He could pinpoint exactly where in that glory Midgard lay. 

Restoring Thor’s memory had become a game, too.  If he could unwork Odin’s working, what an achievement that would be!  Such delicate, complicated work.  Such a challenge.  The thought of besting Odin at his own game filled him with pleasure.

He reached for one book and trailed his fingers over its open pages, feeling the power of the spell it contained like a running stream brushing across his fingertips.  The answer was here.  He knew it. 

He read some of these pages over and over, trying to figure out some way around the very specific requirements.  It had been difficult enough to attempt to master what was called the unlock-exchange, the latching on to and temporary possession of an aspect of the one bespelled in order to gain entry to the soul and restore it to itself.  The spell was complicated, the text full of cautions about distortions in the perception of space and time.  However, a strong seiðmann should be able to maintain his temporary access to the other one’s power; it would be like controlling a powerful and balky stallion, challenging and exciting and so fulfilling when final mastery was achieved.

Those other requirements, though − they were the sort often mentioned and often ignored.  Intention was all.  He knew that with certainty.  These other requirements were inconsequential.  No one possessed that much in the way of singlemindedness of purpose and purity of heart.

He traced a jagged line in the air.  Somewhere at the edge of his vision lightning flashed and died again.  Above, he heard a raven call.  Nothing but silence followed.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Midgard, North America – Catskill Mountains, 1972_

There he was.  With the use of his cane, Blake was making his uneven away along the mountain trail, the ground littered with fallen leaves and pebbles.  He seemed stronger now.  From his aerie high on the cliff above Loki watched Blake pick his way along the path.  How fast these mortals grew!  It had only been a span of a few years on Asgard, but in those years the young man Loki had met in his office seemed to have aged centuries.  The shape of his face, the faint lines on his skin, marked a man much older than one who had lived only through the blink of time that had passed since Loki had last seen him.

He already looked older than Thor had as he approached his coronation.  Would it be now that something would occur to allow Thor to prove his worthiness?  Surely out in this wilderness there were wild beasts that he might slay and damsels he might rescue?

Loki grinned.  Thor would never have bothered going on a hunt for the small black bears or the much smaller wildcats he’d observed in the area.  Unless Thor fell off a cliff or stepped on a poisonous serpent, he was unlikely to encounter any danger here. 

So much for the great warrior.  There was the taste of bile in his mouth.  He’d been working so hard, and for what?  He needed some way to erase his anger at what he was hearing in Asgard.  He had thought, for a while, that the people were beginning to accept him, to trust his judgments.  The commoners did, for the most part, but he had gone to some of the taverns over the past weeks, staying invisible so none were aware of his presence, to find out what the people were really saying. 

He’d found his old war-master Tyr in one of these, holding court at the head of a long table where many of the old warriors were gathered, all of them drunk and getting drunker.  Tyr had pounded on the table with his one hand and roared, “The cowardly Silvertongue sits and talks while the Jötnar are building up their weaponry – and doubtless devising new ways to cause destruction.  Who knows what they hide in their burrows, beneath the frozen surface of their world.  Better if the All-Father had destroyed them all!”

The men roared in approval, drank deep, and banged on the table with their tankards, ale sloshing and splashing over the boards.

Heated anger raced through Loki’s veins, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms.  But he held still, and forced the roaring in his head to pass, to listen.

“If only Thor were here,” a grizzled elderly man shouted, his ferocious blue eyes glaring from beneath bushy silver-white brows.  Asbjørn, like Tyr, was missing a hand; Loki knew it had been destroyed by the touch of a Jötunn.  “There wouldn’t be any of this ‘negotiation’.  He’d lead us to glorious battle, to overwhelming victory.  It makes me want to SPEW,” he shouted and took another deep draught from his tankard, “to think of the Silvertongue doing nothing while the Jötnar make their outrageous demands.  How dare they even ask an Aesir to face an ignominious death by execution, without the hope of Valhalla?  They all deserve death for that outrage alone!”

The roomful roared again in approval, and everyone began talking at once.  A chill had settled around Loki’s heart, a hard cold stone of planned vengeance.  The men talked on, each rumor wilder than the last, but they all came down to: Asgard was in danger, Loki was doing nothing to prevent it, and the Queen was remaining silent, abdicating her judgment and authority to her second son. 

“Why is Loki doing nothing to bring him back?  Why is the Queen letting him take the lead?”

“When,” asked a young hothead, one of Thor’s hanger’s on, “will Thor return and lead them to victory?  He’ll lead us to Jotunheim and we’ll utterly destroy their realm, just as it should have been done centuries ago.   We’d never have to deal with these monsters again.”

The warriors shouted and pounded on the table and threw their tankards to the floor.

The heat of rage returned, flared higher.  Loki wanted to make himself visible, rage at them – tear them apart.

But he was the monster they wanted to slay. 

A true monster.  He slipped out of the tavern and strode off to the water’s edge, walking rapidly along the stone ramparts that curved around the sea.  Monster.  Their words reminded him of what he truly was.  And so he indulged himself in their fantasies.  Slay the monsters.  Slay them all.  There was dark magic, ways it could be done.  He was sure of it. 

If they were all gone – no one would ever know he was one of them.

He didn’t go back to that tavern.  And though many commoners told their stories proving that Prince Loki’s judgments were fair and equitable, though many of the artisans and tradespeople were pleased by the continued peace, it was the fury of the warriors – the ones who had always mocked him – that stuck in his mind like poisoned nettles and would not let go.

His guts twisted with resentment and jealousy.  Hadn’t their hero proved himself unworthy by his rash actions?  Yet, all of them were as foolish as Thor.  With their limited intelligence, it was no surprise they couldn’t perceive greater things.

There were some who didn’t understand that Odin’s sentence was irreversible, despite Frigga’s pronouncement on the matter.  They wanted Thor back – chief among them Sif and his brother’s irritating friends.  They’d been appalled by what they’d seen on their one visit to Midgard – Thor now reduced to a smaller mortal frame, with some unhealed injury to his leg, and beardless, as well!  Now they were demanding he do what they had always derided him for doing before – become a good enough _seiðrmaur_ to rival Odin and reverse his spell.  Hypocrites!

He was tempted to let word slip out among the population of what Odin’s punishment had actually accomplished.  Thor, spending his life among mortals, not even capable of being the least among their warriors, instead doing the work of women.

He’d been dreaming of Thor almost every night now, and the dreams were plaguing him.  In some dreams Thor had spoken words of love, offered gentle kisses and caresses.  But in others… there were ones where Thor had taken him roughly, ignored his wishes…

The dream he’d woken from this morning – he remembered flashes of it.  He had been seated on the throne, entirely alone in the vast hall.  It had seemed to him that he was entirely alone on Asgard, that the realm was deserted, that all but he had fled for some unknown reason.  A devastating emptiness had filled him; he’d felt like a hollow shell, bereft of past and future.

Then Thor was there, mocking him, shaming him, belittling him.  _Know your place, brother._   He’d looked down – and screamed at the sight of his blue skin.

In another dream, Loki secretly watched Thor, a helpless mortal, living a happy life on Midgard.  He had lifted his hand, and there was the Destroyer looming over Thor, its beam of fire prepared to reduce his brother to cinders –

He shuddered at the memory, at the sick twist of fear and envy and loathing and the desire to destroy.  He had it ready now, the new spell complete, prepared to restore Thor’s memories.

But first he wanted to delight in Thor’s mortal helplessness, to find the perfect way to get him back for all the thoughtless things he had ever said, for everything he’d said and done to make Loki feel inferior, lesser.

What better way than to make Thor his equal than to make him ergi so that neither of them was worthy.  If he couldn’t rise to Thor’s level – then he would drag Thor down to his.

Loki’s lips twisted in a bitter smile.   

That’s what he wanted.  Revenge.  _(He wanted the feel of Thor’s arms around him.)_

He wanted Thor’s tender words and loving caresses.  _(And he wanted it rough, but only when he desired it.)_

He wanted Thor helpless and needful beneath him, with him deciding when and where and how, instead of the other way around.  _(He wanted things to be the way they had been before Thor had grown so boastful about his coming coronation that he had no thought for Loki at all.)_

He wanted to see Thor humiliated so that Tyr and all the rest would say the same words about him as they did about Loki.  _(He wanted to be back on that mountain glade on Vanaheim where Thor, after having him, had whispered such words of love and need that he had folded them ever close to his heart.)_

He wanted Thor.  Every part of his body was already charged with desire.  He could imagine it now, Thor’s magnificent physique, the texture of his skin beneath Loki’s hands, the taste of every part of his body – mouth, hands, nipples, cock, thighs, all of it, strong against his tongue, that intoxicating smell of ozone and leather and sweat and power that was Thor and Thor alone.  _(He’d wanted Thor sleeping beside him after sex; he wanted the comfort of the presence of the one who had been next to him his entire life long.)_

He watched Blake make his way along the path.  Would Thor, as mortal, taste and feel the same?  His cock already lifting, Loki was determined to find out. 

There were many mortals in this area of their mountains today.  He must pick exactly the right spot to arrange their meeting.

 

The mountain air was crisp and fresh in Blake’s lungs.  He breathed in deeply and continued his slow way along the path.  This was something else to be grateful for – polio had stolen some of the use of his left leg from him, but it had taken so much more from others.  Even the ability to breathe.  The time he’d seen a woman confined to an iron lung, entirely dependent on the huge machine to breathe for her, had left an indelible mark in his mind, a lasting reminder that he could have suffered a much worse fate.

He had been lucky.  If he’d had to suffer this affliction at all, he had mostly recovered.  Some never would.  And many had died.

The path wound gently upward, passing by an open meadow before leading back into a forested area.  Another mile, he thought.  He was increasing the distance bit by bit, every time he could spare a day to come here.  So close to his town, but his duties kept him so busy, now that he had more patients and had to do hospital rounds. 

He needed the feel of the fresh air in his lungs, the warm sun on his skin.  He needed to be away from civilization.  He needed time not to think, needed to focus on something pure and simple, rather than the mess he was making of his life.  He was outwardly very successful and wasn’t it a shame, he knew people said, that Jane Foster had broken off their recent engagement.  But it was his fault, he knew.  She’d sensed something was wrong, and initially took it to be a fault on her part.  She thought that she wasn’t desirable enough, that she wasn’t what he wanted.  And that was true, but he’d lied to her, and he’d lied to himself, often enough that she finally figured out she wasn’t the problem at all.

“I guess I’m not the right woman for you,” she’d said, and he’d tried to reassure her that she was beautiful, that she was desirable.  But she knew he didn’t want her.  He just wasn’t good enough at lying, not with words, and not with his body.

The breakup had left a sour taste with him.  He knew he was the one in the wrong, and he could not tell her why.  Already other women were out in force, women who, thinking he was available again, finding excuses to visit their doctor. 

It made him tired and confused, and part of him felt he shouldn’t be feeling these things.  But he knew only too well what was wrong with him, and it wasn’t just his leg.  He knew what the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders said about men like him.  But the last thing he was going to do was go see some shrink.

The feel of being out in nature, walking, stronger and steadier each time, kept calling to him.  This was far more healing than anything else he could do right now.

He drew in another lungful of air – and was surprised by a sudden scent, sweet and recognizable.

Marijuana.  Kids were always up here smoking it, and while he didn’t approve, he didn’t much care either.

He kept walking, and when the trees opened up again he saw a bunch of flower children lolling around several boulders in a meadow passing a joint around.  They were dressed in the usual unconventional garments, lots of feathers and beads and fringe.  The men and women all had long flowing hair, some with headbands, some with flowers, and some with both in their hair. 

They smiled up at him.  “Hey man,” one of the men called, “Wanna toke?”  He held up the joint and smiled in invitation.

“No thank you,” Blake said.  “I’m enjoying the beautiful day just as it is.”

“Heavy man,” the youngster replied.  Someone next to him began aimlessly strumming a guitar, then began picking out a simple song.

The melody followed Blake as he continued on his way, wondering what it would be like to have the time to just loll in the sun and do nothing at all. 

Something about that thought seemed familiar.  He couldn’t place it, though, and kept walking.  Just a bit further, he thought, and he’d turn back.

The trail veered sharply to the left and the trees crowded closer, meeting overhead, making a dark green tunnel.  A light breeze blew up, and the air was full of the sounds of the rustlings of leaves and animals in the undergrowth.  It grew darker, and in one of the patches where he could see open sky he saw a cloud had passed over the sun.  The air grew cooler. 

He reached an open area and checked the sky.  Still clear, but the cloud cover was increasing.

Time to turn around, he decided.  But first, he settled on a fallen tree at the further edge of the clearing and took a long drink of warm, slightly metallic water from his wool-covered metal canteen.  He pulled a chocolate bar out of his backpack and ate it, then decided he’d eat the sandwich and apple he’d brought when he was nearly back to the parking lot.

Suddenly he felt he was being watched – skin prickling on the back of his neck.  This had happened often over the years, and though he looked around, no one was there.  No one was ever there. 

The feeling grew stronger.  It had grown even darker.  Uneasy, he stood up and headed back the way he came.  He wondered if a storm was coming up. 

The patches of sky grew fewer; the branches met overhead again, and he re-entered the green leafy tunnel.  He walked on, using his cane to help him balance over the uneven ground.  There was a sudden sharp crack and a deer leaped across the path.  Startled, he stopped, and was instantly grateful it wasn’t hunting season. 

He kept walking but where was the meadow?  Surely it hadn’t been this far.  The breeze died and everything went silent as the path turned again.

There was the meadow, but as he stepped out into it he was startled to see it was late afternoon and the sky was filling with clouds.   Surely he couldn’t have gone that far.  There was no one near the rocks the flower children had been lounging around, though there was a lingering smell of pot in the air. 

He stopped, looking around, the hair prickling on the back of his neck.  The unnatural quiet was disturbing, and he couldn’t get rid of the feeling someone was watching him. 

Uneasy, he headed back toward the trail leading to the parking lot.  The breeze was back, and when he glanced up clouds were scudding rapidly across the sky.  A drop of rain fell.  Another.  He reached the edge of the meadow, then paused again.  Where before there had been one trail, now there were two.  The one to the right _should_ be the one he had taken to get here, but it looked overgrown, little more than an animal path.  The one to the left –

That one looked clearly and commonly travelled – it had to have been the one he‘d taken to get here.  But it still looked wrong.

He shook his head.  He must have forgotten, gotten turned around.  Things looked different from this side.  He turned to the left and took that path.

There was a man ahead of him on the path dressed in green and black walking further into the woods.  From the length of the raven-black hair that fell down past his shoulders he must be one of the hippies, Blake decided.  But he was filled with a sense of déjà vu – the way the man walked, the set of his shoulders, the length of his legs  – it was all so familiar.  He wanted to quicken his pace, but he was only too well aware of the dangers of falling.  “Hello!” he shouted. 

The man slowed but didn’t stop. 

“Hello!” he shouted again. 

The man slowed even further, and then turned.  Intense green eyes looked into his, and Blake felt a shock of recognition, like electricity, flow across his skin and vanish again.  Sucking in a breath, he hurried forward as quickly as his weakened leg allowed him, careful to keep his balance with his cane. 

Leaves shifted in the trees all around them, and there was the sharp smell of ozone, the feeling of a thunderstorm on the approach.  The man waited, his angular face tilted slightly forward, a smirk on his thin lips, but when Blake was almost within touching distance, he moved away, leaving the path, melting into the woods.

_He knew this man.  He had to talk to him.  It was important._ Without a thought, unease forgotten, certain he’d met this man before but he had no idea when or where, Blake followed, determined to solve this mystery.  Threading his way through the trees and undergrowth for a dozen or so yards, he finally broke into a small clearing. 

The man was standing at the far edge, and, for an instant – Donald blinked – a green and gold shimmer seemed to surround him, then sparkled into nothing.

A trick of the light, Donald thought.  A beam of bright sunlight broke through the cloud cover and illuminated the man.  Donald took a step forward.

“You know me, do you not?” the man said, an indefinable foreign accent coloring his voice.

“I – “ Blake started and stopped.  The word “yes” had been on his tongue.  But the word wouldn’t leave his lips.  He took several more steps forward and stopped again, a shiver running through his entire body.  Had he met this man before?  The eyes – that intense, peculiar shade of green – surely he’d remember them.  The carved angles of the pale face, the long black hair flowing in the breeze – his hands remembered running his fingers through that blackest of hair, his hands remembered caressing that eldritch face. His lips remembered the feel of that mouth.  Ashamed, he realized he was aroused.  And yet…

No.  Impossible.  That had never happened.

And he would know if he had met this man before.  He wouldn’t have forgotten a face like this.  He’d never seen this man before.  And yet…

“No,” he said, and a strange bitter smile twisted the man’s mouth.

“Ah.”  Just that one syllable, yet his voice was low, dark, somehow both disappointed and insinuating. 

Blake took in more details.  The detailed embroidery on what looked like handmade clothing.  The strange gold necklace, like a crescent moon.  The fine long-fingered hands moving restlessly, curling, then quieting.

More flower child eccentricity.  He was _sure_ he’d never seen this man before.  And yet…  “Who are you?”

A side-tilted smile.  The stranger took a step closer.  Another.  Blake stood his ground until they were barely two feet apart.  Should he walk away?  And yet something in him wanted to step forward, something in him that cried _familiar,_ that beckoned him through an unknown door.

“You are quite fine,” the man said, his gaze raking down Blake’s body and up again.  His lips curved in a lascivious smile.  “There are many things we could do.”

Cold fear ran through him.  He was suddenly all too aware of how much weight he was resting on his cane, how slowly he moved, how impossible it would be to escape this confrontation.  Pretending he wasn’t afraid, Blake huffed a laugh, “Look,” he said, remembering belatedly to be offended.  “I know you hippies are all about ‘if it feels good do it’, but I – ”

“It was on a day such as this,” the man interrupted smoothly, his gaze holding Blake’s.  “We went into the woods.  We both knew what we wanted.  Wanted for so long,” he said reminiscently.  “And I said, there is no reason to deny ourselves.  We can have what we wanted.  No one need know.”  He leaned toward Blake, transfixing him with his gaze.  “…I went on my knees before him,” he said in a bare whisper.  “And I….”  A wicked grin as Blake sucked in a breath and took a half-step backwards, ready to pivot on his cane.  “You know what happened next.”

This was insanity.  This man was either crazy or on some drug.  He should be going.  This was dangerous.  They were outdoors.  Worse than dangerous, deeply idiotic.  He should go.  Now.

But he _wanted_ so much.  That compelling gaze on him, close to a caress on naked skin; that mouth seemed so familiar.  He suddenly knew exactly how the man would look naked, every detail of the appearance of that lithe musculature and perfect skin vivid in his mind.  His breath was coming faster; his heartrate increasing; his groin tightening with desire.  His fingers curled, their tips telling him they already knew the texture of the stranger’s skin and hair.

“No one will see,” the man purred.  “Look around you?  How could they?”

He glanced around, stunned to see that the pathway back was now obscured in fog.

“You do remember, don’t you?” the man’s low, insinuating voice went on.  “Of the times we’ve found our pleasure together?  And no one ever knew.  They will not know now.”

“I – ” he began.  He’s crazy, a part of his mind said, but a deeper part said, _I know him._   _I want him_.  _How many times have I fantasized about meeting a stranger and all the things we would do together?  No one will see.  No one will know.  I want this._

He felt a crazy sense of liberation.  The times he’d been with women – he’d always fantasized about men in order to perform.  He couldn’t do it any other way.  The times he’d been to New York City, receiving propositions in public parks, in public restrooms.  He’d always refused and hurried away, but always wondered – what if he said yes?

Too dangerous.  They were probably police.  And even if they weren’t, it was too public, too risky.    He’d get caught, arrested, and then his life would be over.

But here…  maybe the hippies were right.  Everything was changing.  New ideas were everywhere in the air; assassinations, violence, and bombings showed how much the old order was under attack.  But despite the violence, things kept right on changing.  Women wanted more than marriage and children; they wanted to work in professions that had always been reserved for men.  Martin Luther King Jr. had opened everyone’s eyes to the injustices suffered by Negroes, a full century past the Civil War and still treated like second class citizens, now asking – demanding – their place at the table.  The Supreme Court had recently legalized interracial marriage. 

Maybe one day he would have the right to be who he was.

He laughed at himself.  That day would never come.  But here, now…

Why not take the chance?  Here was this stranger – the embodiment of all his fantasies, a face he might have dreamed of, offering something he’d always wanted.  Why not?  It was late in the day; most of the hikers would have left; they were completely alone.

No one would know.

That decided him.

“I always wanted… you on your knees.  Will you?”  The low seductive voice shivered in the air, as palpable as sweet smoke.

And, without thinking, he awkwardly lowered himself to his knees.

The other man’s clothing was gone.  No zippers, no buttons, no ties.  Just – gone.

And he didn’t question it.  Was it the pot, lingering in the air?  He could still imagine he caught a whiff of the harsh sweetness.  But he knew he was lying.  Knew, with the depth of older deeper fantasies, he was doing this because he wanted to.  And since it was all so unreal, it would be easier to pretend, afterwards, it had never happened.  That is, if he wanted to forget.

A long slender cock rose proudly before his eyes, surprisingly uncut, its tip glistening wet.  A hand caught his head, tilted it, the cock pressing at his lips.  He opened his mouth.  And let it in.

When he had imagined doing this – and he had, many times – he’d known that if it ever actually happened he’d be awkward.  Inexperienced.  Fumbling.  But it didn’t take long before he had the rhythm of it, sucking eagerly, the taste of the flesh in his mouth, the intense smell filling his nostrils, made him hum around its thickness.  Long fingers pressed gently against the back of his skull, and the soft pleasured sounds the other man was making went straight to his cock.  His own hands were positioned on the other man’s hard tight ass, and he reveled in the feeling of naked skin over hard muscle.  He held tight to steady himself.

The strain and ache in his jaw was the final proof.  This was actually happening.  It wasn’t some fantasy image of his ideal man, the image he’d always fantasized about while he jerked off, of a man with ink dark hair and brilliant green eyes.

It was real.  Here.  Now.  He was doing this.  He was finally doing this.  And it was even better than he had expected it to be.

He sucked harder, his tongue exploring every rigid inch, pushing the foreskin back – such an oddness, so exotic.  His reward, the other man’s moans of pleasure and broken off words of strange praise excited him further.

“Yes – take it all – my little ergi mortal – take it all,” the other man moaned. “My beautiful lover.  Like that.  Like that.  Thor, yes Thor, yes!”

And then he shuddered, his cock jerking, spilling.  Blake swallowed it down, and as the other man pulled out Blake pressed one hand against the front of his trousers and he was coming too, an explosion of pleasure that rocked him back to his heels.  Gasping, he looked up at the other man’s face, transfixed by his expression of open-mouthed ecstasy.  A bare hint of green iris showed beneath his nearly-closed eyelids.  His chest heaved, and as a shaft of sunlight crossed the clearing – Blake blinked – there was an instant where he could see an aura around the other man, barely visible leaf greens and dulled golds, that faded as he watched.  He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again the other man was looking down at him, a complicated expression of satiated pleasure oddly tinged with malice so quickly followed by remorse that he wasn’t sure if he had interpreted any of those expressions correctly.

Then the other man reached down, caught him beneath his armpits and lifted him up as if he weighed nothing more than a feather pillow and looked directly into his eyes.

*****

Loki looked down at the bowed blond head.  Thor had fallen back on his heels, and in this crouching position he looked utterly submissive, adding to the aftermath of Loki’s pleasure.  Then Thor tilted his head and the so-familiar blue eyes framed by pale blond lashes, still stunned with pleasure, looked up at him. 

For a moment he could almost pretend this was real – that Thor remembered him, was looking up at him with such dazed delight. 

But he couldn’t lie to himself for long.  There was no recognition in that gaze.  The structure of Blake’s face was thinner.  So close, almost the same as the man he had called brother for so many years, yet the years of mortality had left their stamp on the bone structure.  This man was fragile.  Weak. 

It had been what he had always wanted.  Thor’s mouth on his cock.  Thor would take him in hand, allow him to rub where he pleased, touch himself – but Thor never allowed any penetration of his body.  Though Thor had made thorough use of Loki’s mouth and ass, his own mouth and ass remained untouched.

Now he had something of what he had always wanted.  And when Thor finally remembered and realized what he had done willingly – oh yes, he’d take such pleasure in Thor’s shame.  His lips stretched into a malicious smile. 

Blake clearly saw the change in his expression; his expression of stunned pleasure changed into something more questioning.  And suddenly Loki felt something else.  Was it regret?  He blinked away sudden moisture in his eyes and drew in a deep breath.  He’d wanted this.  It was every bit as satisfying as he’d imagined.  So now, only a moment later, why did he feel a sense of loss?  Why did this victory feel so hollow?

Loki lifted Blake up, astonished by how light in weight he was.  How frail mortals were.  For the first time he realized the extent of Odin’s punishment – he could snap Thor’s bones now as if they were the slightest of twigs. 

Feeling a sudden wave of concern, Loki settled Blake firmly on the ground and withdrew his hands from beneath Blake’s armpits.  He looked into his eyes, and Loki realized with surprise they were of the same height.  Thor’s mortal illness had taken inches of height from him, as well as the superb musculature he had had before.

Blake’s blue eyes – Thor’s blue eyes – were filled with surprise and delight.  “I hope I did it right?” he said, his voice lifting into a question at the end.

A surge of pure affection ran through him, and without thinking he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Thor’s mouth, still reddened from the use Loki had put it to, tasting himself on those familiar lips.  Blake embraced him, pulled him close, and Loki inhaled his scent, Thor’s scent, yet overlaid with the smell of mortality.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he whispered into Loki’s ear.  Loki’s arms went around him, so tightly that Blake struggled for a bit before he remembered to let go and step back.

“You do,” Loki whispered, wanting very much for it to be so.  He was suddenly tired of this, tired of the ever-present knot of anger and resentment and fear inside him.  Wanted it to be over.  Wanting his brother back.

Blake now looked confused.  “I keep thinking…”  His voice trailed back.

“Do you remember me?” Loki said urgently, but Blake’s face had gone blank. 

Loki bent his head until their foreheads touched, for a moment pretending things were as they had been before, before everything was ruined. 

Before Thor ruined everything. 

_Before HE ruined everything._

He couldn’t maintain the pretence.  Thor’s skin – Blake’s skin – seemed less fine-textured than Thor’s, worn and roughened by his years and by different elements.  So much the same.  So different.

“Remember me,” Loki whispered, his voice layered with sorrow.  He stepped back and with a gesture summoned the magic of his new spell, years in the making.  A spell that he had set into motion shortly after he arrived in these mountains designed to unlock the tiniest opening into Thor’s magic and recall him to himself.  A spell that would allow Loki, for one brief moment, access to the power of the Stormlord.

A sudden flash of lightning ripped across the sky, a powerful blast of thunder instantly following.  Startled, Blake looked directly up and in the brief bright light of a second bolt Loki saw with hope a flicker of incandescent light in Thor’s eyes, now nearly cobalt with power.

The color faded, and the thunder, when it came, was weak and far off and foreshortened. 

He could feel the power drain away from him, far too little to prevail against the working which lay like impenetrable armor around Blake’s body.  He watched the remnants of his working whirl around the aura of Odin’s casting, seeking entry, then dissipating without trace as Odin’s spell, once again, held. 

Blake wasn’t looking at him anymore.  His eyes were empty, his face slack.  And then he crumpled to the ground.

Frightened, Loki lifted him and checked for all the signs of mortal life. Breathing, heart rate, what did he know of what was right for mortals?  Nearly frantic, he carried him to a large clearing, near where the mortals left their vehicles, and settled him against a large boulder. 

He sat next to him, his mind nearly as blank as Blake’s face.  Defeat.  Failure.  But he’d followed the spell exactly.  It _should_ have worked.

The tangled emotions inside him coalesced into rage against Odin.  His false father.  He reached for the satisfaction he had felt earlier, that Odin would treated his own blood son so, that Thor had fallen so far that Odin meted out this harsh punishment.

That satisfaction was still there, but it was twisted up with other feelings, feelings he couldn’t identify, and his mind shied away from looking too closely.

Then Blake drew in a sudden deep breath and his eyelids fluttered.  Loki stood up, became invisible, but kept watching until Blake’s eyes were fully open.  He looked around in puzzlement and then stood up.

Loki faded out in the space between moments, his last sight, Blake’s confused expression.

*****

Blake drew in a deep shuddering breath and found with surprise he was leaning against a boulder in a large clearing.  He looked up, shocked to see it was nearly sunset.  He didn’t remember sitting down, much less falling asleep, but here he was.

There had been dreams.  Strange dreams.  He remembered…

Dreams of thunder, of lightning, and a silky voice whispering in his ear -

A flash of green and gold –

There had been someone there –

He looked around but there was no sign of anyone else.   He was alone.  No one there.

No one had been there.  Just dreams.

But why did his jaw feel tender and sore?

He shook his head, dismissing it.  He hadn’t realized a brief exposure to marijuana smoke could be this potent.

Dreams.  Just one fragment – and then he looked down and saw the stain on his pants.

Blushing at the realization he’d had a wet dream, he struggled to his feet.  Maybe it had been exposure to the pot.

He was pleased to find he was very close to the trailhead.  He headed out to the parking area, relieved to find no one there to see him in his soiled clothing.  It was a long drive home, and realizing he was hungry, he stopped for a few minutes at a picnic table to eat his sandwich and apple and drink the rest of his water. 

But his mind kept bringing him disconnected fragments of dream images.  There had been a man.  Black hair.  Lustful green eyes.  Sexual images.  Arousing images.  The forbidden images his mind insisted on bringing to him in his sleep. 

Stronger than even sex, though, was a lingering sense of sorrow, a feeling that he’d finally found a piece of home, but that a door had been shut in his face.

He shook his head and stepped over to his car.  He needed to get home and shower and toss his clothes in the washer.  Tomorrow was a work-day, and he had a full schedule.  No more napping in the woods, he vowed.  No more unsettling dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER NOTE:  The first and second editions of the American Psychiatric Association’s publication “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM)” listed homosexuality as a mental disorder.  This definition was removed from the DSM in 1973.


	6. Chapter 6

_Asgard_

“What are they waiting for?” Loki paced around Frigga’s receiving chamber, while she sat composed in a carved and gilded chair, hands folded in her lap.  “Why have the Jötnar stayed silent for so long?”

“Laufey is biding his time,” Frigga said, rising and moving gracefully towards him.  He turned to face her, and she settled her hands on his arms.  “They are drawing out the process.  They are taking my measure.  Taking yours.”

“Do you think they are waiting for Father to awaken?”  He was punctilious now at using the word ‘Father’ whenever he spoke of Odin to her; he did not need her look of disappointment to add to his burdens. 

“Possibly,” she said, frowning slightly.  “I think not.”

“For what reason?”

“I think that Laufey no more wants war than your father does.”

Loki scoffed.  “The weapons array he is creating belies that motive.”

She gave him a serene smile.  “He would not wish to look weak to his people.  He tells them they are building their strength.”

“Which they are.”  He made a broad gesture to the charts on a nearby table, their parchments filled with the moving glyphs and sigils of Jotunheim’s armaments.  “They become stronger every day.”

“They have nowhere near the strength they had 1000 years ago,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken.  He shrugged, nettled at the implication that there was something he hadn’t fully researched – which, in actuality, he had not.  “Laufey knows they have not the might to overcome Asgard.  And should the war take place Jotunheim’s doom is almost assured.  Our possession of the Casket and other weapons in the Vault ensure that none dare challenge us.  Laufey knows all this.  He is not a fool.”

“And do you believe that?  Truly?” He began pacing again.  “I do not.”

“Of course I cannot know what is in his thoughts,” she said.  “Would that I could.  But I believe if he had truly wanted war it would have come by now.  He is, I believe, simply waiting for the best bargain.”

“Then we shall have to find what best pleases him – and our people,” he said.  She nodded, her eyes showing she was in full accord.

*****

This was not a day for petitioners.  Rather, it was a significant occasion, an audience held in the throne room in privacy with the ambassadors from Niðavellir and Alfheim who were looking to Asgard to resolve their dispute.

Ilyndrathyl, the elven embassador, as tall and willowy as all those of his kind, bowed deeply before the throne where Frigga sat, paying equal respect to Loki, standing by her side.  His waist length silver hair, ornamented with numerous intricate jeweled clasps and braiding, was pulled back from his face, revealing his pointed ears.  The golden light of the great throne room flattered his slanted golden eyes, highlighted the sharpness of his cheekbones, and danced along the shimmer of the elaborately embroidered and gilded blue-violet ceremonial clothing clinging to his lithe form.  Loki listened carefully as he detailed the problem in a voice as clear as the finest music.

For his part, the dwarf Ráðsviðr, who although he had greeted Frigga and Loki with the utmost respect and a bow of his own, did not bother to hide a glower as Ilyndrathyl spun out his tale with the most elaborate phrasings possible.  He stood there now, his stout and stumpy form clad in sturdy brown cloth and heavy boots, his face like a crude rock carving, a belligerent cast to his jaw and loathing clearly visible in his deep-set eyes.

It was a simple and obvious matter, Ilyndrathyl explained.  The Dökkálfar had created a tiny realm, a singularly ugly ball of rock without any niceties of appearance, then sent it meandering very close to Alfheim.  Ilyndrathyl requested, in polite and flowery language, with a gentle smile on his lips and a threat within his violet eyes, that Asgard require the dwarves to remove and destroy their spy vehicle.  

Ráðsviðr then stated his case.  The Dökkálfar were innocent of any such outrageous accusations, their device was completely outside Alfheim’s territory and they had every right to search for various small realms containing high mineral content. 

With a great deal of flowery language, Loki agreed to consider the matter, then courteously invited them both to attend a feast in their honor.  Each of their tables, large enough for their entire retinues, were placed to either side of the high table.  They were served the finest of Asgardian food, the best wines, and were provided with the most skillful of Asgardian entertainments.  Soon both men were applauding the dancers and the bards along with the Asgardians present.

After the feast was over, Loki, not trusting this task to a servant, sent a magical invitation to Ilyndrathyl to join him in a private sitting chamber, located near the throne room, which was accomplished in secrecy under invisibility.

Loki offered him another glass of wine.  Ilyndrathyl accepted with courtesy and they settled back into sumptuous chairs.

Loki gave him a conspiratorial smile.  “There is no need to be subtle.  We both know the Dökkálfar intend to spy upon you.  Their only problem is, they got caught.  So I propose we take them at their word.  I will ask them to swear their innocence of any intention to engage in espionage and I will grant their request to search for minerals and jewels among the uninhabited worlds.”

Ilyndrathyl raised a questioning brow.  “The Dökkálfar have no honor and will not keep their word.”

Loki’s smile widened.  “That is why you and I will craft a spell to keep their device from gathering any information from your realm.  We shall, of course, not mention this detail to them.”

They spent some time planning the crafting of the working, which Loki stated must take place on Asgard as pressing matters kept him here at this time.  Ilyndrathyl diplomatically did not offer to discuss in detail the ‘pressing matters’, as all realms, save Midgard of course, knew of the long-simmering hostilities between Asgard and Jotunheim after, as Ilyndrathyl  put it, “that unfortunate incident with the banished crown prince.”  But, Ilyndrathyl spoke in the strictest confidence that all of Alfheim was pleased with the new state of affairs with Asgard’s royalty, for Loki knew, and he knew, of the preferences and favors Loki had given Alfheim, favors the Allfather had rarely chosen to share.  And then there was the issue of certain magical relics in Odin’s Vault which, by right, belonged to the light elves, an issue touched upon obliquely and subtly, and then allowed to drop again, with the understanding the subject might be revisited in more favorable times.

When at last Ilyndrathyl took his leave he professed himself perfectly pleased with their arrangement. 

They both set their delicate filigreed wineglasses down on a nearby table.  Loki thanked him.  Then, as soon as he was gone.  Loki, not trusting this task to a servant, sent a magical invitation to Ráðsviðr to join him in the private sitting chamber, which was accomplished in secrecy under invisibility.

Loki, already seated, offered him a huge mug of the best beer, a large oaken keg prominent on a nearby stone table.  Ráðsviðr accepted, with thanks, and took a seat on the dwarf-sized chair Loki had arranged for him.  He took a long draught, foam catching on his bristly auburn beard.  “Great beer!” he proclaimed, drained it, and smashed the tankard on the floor.

There were plenty of tankards at hand, and Ráðsviðr helped himself to a refill.

Loki got directly to business, for all knew how much dwarves mistrusted flowery language.  “I wanted to speak to you away from the ears of Ilyndrathyl, for as you know, elves are expert at hiding their meaning behind many words.”

Suspicion warred with appreciation in the dwarf’s dark eyes. 

“Knowing the reputation of the Dökkálfar for honesty and fair dealing – ” Ráðsviðr grinned, apparently willing taking him at his word and ready to pull a con job – “Therefore, I wish to make a proposal.  I agree, Alfheim’s accusation was outrageous and you do have every right to send your ship to search for riches among the unnamed realms.  I shall craft a spell to help you do so, to find those uninhabited realms filled with the most riches.”  _And to spy on everything you do_ , Loki did not say.

“In exchange?”

“For your solemn oath to Ilyndrathyl that you will not use your ship to spy upon them.  Since you have no interest in doing so, that should be simple enough.”  The dwarf’s bearded mouth twisted unhappily, but he quickly replaced it with a broad, toothy, entirely false grin.  “And…”  Ráðsviðr’s gaze was riveted on Loki’s face. “Thirty percent of all you find to Asgard’s coffers.”

Much haggling followed, and Loki professed himself well pleased with ten percent, the sum he’d intended to end with, which he planned to distribute to the commoners in the form of entertainments and feasts and largess to one and all, so that no one could claim he played favorites.

Finally, Loki rose, indicating their audience was at an end.  Ráðsviðr got up as well, and for a moment, looking down at someone only tall as a half-grown child, whose head came barely above Loki’s stomach, for one queasy moment he was back on Jotunheim, looking up at the monsters.

_This is who I am_ , Loki realized.  _Were I to be among the monsters that birthed me.  Full grown, yet like a half grown child._

Ráðsviðr looked at him, inquiringly, and Loki pasted on an imperious smile.  Then Ráðsviðr swore that all of Niðavellir would give him their gratitude and utmost loyalty, for Loki knew, and he knew, of the preferences and favors Loki had given Niðavellir

Loki’s smile widened as soon as the door closed behind the dwarf.  The best bargain, he knew, was one where all parties felt they had bested the others.

*****

Some days later, he’d retreated to his chambers after another long day with Mother and the Council after long hours of discussing strategy and tactics based on what they knew of the Jötnar defenses.  He’d found yet another arcane text to study, but its initial promise of how to dissolve a memory-wipe spell had faded once he’d gotten through the first few chapters and realized his own magical knowledge was more advanced than the mage who had written this tome.

Still, he persevered, and was in the middle of another deadly dull recitation of rare spellmaking ingredients and where to find them when he became aware of a strange fluttering sound nearby.

Instantly alert, he stood, and frowned in puzzlement at the creation fluttering outside his balcony, beyond the edge of his wards.  It looked like a green-tailed striped butterfly, but it was no such thing.  Rather, it was a simple thing made of paper and magic.  He gestured and spoke two words.  His working passed through the thing without damaging it, and realizing it was harmless, he gestured again.  The thing unfolded itself into a parchment hexagon, filled with neat inked writing.  It settled on the balustrade.  He picked it up.  “My lord and prince, I humbly offer all my thanks for your great wisdom,” it read. 

He knew who had sent it as soon as he touched it.  He considered whether he should answer.  Then, when he set it down again, it reformed itself into a butterfly and flew away.

The simple working reminded him of similar things he’d done just barely past early boyhood.  Curious and so very tired of his fruitless studies, he indulged himself.  Transforming into a magpie, he flew past his wards and followed the thing as it flew up into the hills, into high farm country.  The butterfly flew straight and true past sun-dappled fields.  It looked like there was going to be a very good crop this year, he noted as he flew over field after field abundant with grain.  He headed past a strand of trees, then followed a gurgling mountain stream, and finally settled down to the ground in the center of an herb patch.

The hedge witch Raakeli stared straight up at him, her thin body clad in simple farming garb, her white hair wound around her head.  Transforming back into his own form he settled on the ground before her.

She instantly fell to both knees, bowing.  “My lord,” she said, her voice full of surprise. “I only wished to convey my thanks, and not disturb you further.”

“You may stand,” he said, walking past her to stroll around the garden.  He examined several plants closely, sniffing one, testing the pollen of another, enjoying being outside, in the light and air and the warmth of the day, surrounded by the smell of the fertile earth.  He turned to find her standing in the place where she had knelt.  “I take it you have had better luck with your potions?” he asked, remembering that the spell he’d cast to augment her own had never been activated.  So she did have Talent after all.

“Yes, my lord,” she said, and something inside him he’d long forgotten warmed at the gratitude in her eyes.

“Has Hródolf upheld his end of the bargain, then?”

“He has, my lord.”  Her eyes shone with gratitude.

“I saw on my way here the local fields are quite productive.”

“Yes, he is quite pleased.  I thank you again, my lord.”  She shifted her weight from one foot to another, still looking as if she wanted to drop back down on her knees.  “I have had good custom since everyone has seen how well Hródolf’s crops are growing.”

“That is well then.”  He copied Odin’s expression on the rare occasions he spoke with commoners in other than formal settings, benevolent yet regal.  Inwardly he felt unexpected satisfaction at her words of gratitude.  _Being a King means caring for your people, in understanding their needs and helping them in all ways possible to improve the standing of Asgard, that what you do as King will matter in the lives of your subjects, for good or ill.  Do what matters for the good in their lives and Asgard will continue to prosper._ He had heard the All Father say those words, and when he was young he had believed them, believed everything Odin said. 

Maybe not everything Odin had told him was a lie.

He gestured to the planting of Setallah plants.  “You have tended these well.  Send two measures of these, when ready, to the palace for me.  I will have payment sent to you.”

“Thank you,” she said again, bowing.

He felt less burdened when he flew away, and he indulged himself on the way back by veering around trees then soaring high in the sky, enjoying, for the moment, the pleasure of not being himself.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Frigga found him, his hands clasped around his knees, seated on an outcropping of stone overlooking the turbulent waters of the bay.  The rainbow colors of the Bifrost coruscated at the far horizon, but Loki’s gaze went even further, focused on that spot in space where Midgard lay. 

He stood as she approached and acknowledged her brilliant smile with a small one of his own.  “You have news?” he asked.

“We have it now,” she replied, voice filled with hope.  “The last element for the spell you found, sent to us by my sister on Vanaheim, a powdered Illyrian crystal.”

He was startled to feel hope himself.  “We’ve tried so often, Mother.  Do you think this will work, when all else has failed?”

“It will,” she insisted, but the hope in her eyes was shadowed with fear. 

“What if it doesn’t, Mother?” he breathed.

But she had no answer for him, her gaze now fixed, as his had been, where Midgard lay.

After she left, he sat back down on the outcropping, and though his gaze was on Midgard his thoughts were of years past.

There they were, in a glade in a remote mountain on Vanaheim, having snuck out of the Vanir royal palace for some exploration.  Thor wanted to test his newfound ability to fly with Mjolnir, and Loki, arms clasped around his brother’s neck, whooped with a manic glee at their breathtaking terrifying swoops through the air.  They’d landed in this glade and collapsed in heaps of fallen leaves on the ground, still laughing at their escapade. 

After catching his breath, not bothering to rise, Loki gestured at the air.  Shortly, a shimmering illusion appeared and Thor roared with laughter at the sight of Loki’s reenactment of a prank from years ago, their math tutor falling through an elaborate trap they’d set up, winding up in the mud.  “Another!” Thor said, and Loki had obliged with a more detailed illusion of General Tyr doing something rude with a goat.  Thor found that equally hilarious, and shouted, “More!”

This time, Loki thought of Elyris, a fair maiden both had seen on a recent trip to the village, dressed in the latest style with most of her bosom spilling over the top of her tight-laced gown.  Elyris beckoned them both and Loki choreographed the illusion in slow motion – her unlacing her bodice and offering her breasts.  And then – this was hard to do – he created illusions of himself and Thor approaching her, fondling then sucking at the generous breasts, their faces brushing against each other.

Thor turned on his side and reached out a hand.  He turned his head, forgetting the illusion which was now frozen in the air.  Thor’s pupils were blown wide.  He trailed his fingers along Loki’s arm, then down to his thigh, inched it close to his crotch.  Then stopped.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment.  Then Loki covered his brother’s hand with his own and moved it to cover the hardness beneath his breeches.

It had been gentle, he remembered, all touches and grasping with their hands.  Both had been quick to spill.  And quick to do it again.  And a third time.  And in between times Thor had held him close and said loving words, then slept and woke again.

They didn’t speak of it again for some years.  Then, one day, alone in Thor’s chamber, Loki had offered to cast a spell to blur Heimdall’s vision.  Thor’s eyes had gone wide and he had agreed.  After that, they had taken advantage of every opportunity. 

Many decades later, back in Vanaheim, they went to that same glade, and Loki finally allowed Thor to make him ergi.

That had changed things between them.  He had somehow thought Thor would reciprocate.

It had taken Loki more time than it ought to have to understand that he never would.

Loki stood, refocusing on the present, disliking the bittersweet tinge of memory.  It was time to finish the preparations for the spell, and return to Midgard.  And Thor.

*****

_Midgard, North America, New York City, 1976_

There he was.  Blake was making his way through the crowded bar with the aid of his cane, his blond hair shining like a beacon even in the dim light.  He moved so easily now that his slight limp was barely apparent.

Loki had seen him outside, walking down a busy sidewalk from the many-storyed inn where he was staying to this tavern.  He had not been in the village where he resided when Loki had initially arrived, so Loki had cast a spell to determine his current location and found him in this vast Midgardian island city called New York.

He had successfully concluded the negotiations with the Ljósálfar and the Dökkálfar.  It had all taken a great deal of time, with the intricate observation of protocol and the detail involved in the entertainments and feasts, but at the end both Ilyndrathyl and Ráðsviðr, each secure in the knowledge they had been given the better deal and the other party an inferior one, both quite pleased with Loki’s judgment in the matter, had departed for their respective realms.

Satisfied with the results, certain that the All-Father, still lost in his endless sleep, would not have found a better solution, very pleased with the knowledge that Thor could not possibly have handled this matter with any sort of finesse, and in the best mood he’d been in for a long time, he’d decided to favor Thor with a visit.  “I am doing what you never could or would,” he whispered when he saw him.

Once he’d located Blake, he’d observed him spending a great deal of his time sitting in audiences in the large lower rooms of the inn, listening to talks given by learned men.

Another thing Thor had never taken pleasure in doing.  Loki remembered all too well Thor’s habit of eluding their tutors when adventures in the great outdoors beckoned.  Yet Blake seemed fully attentive to the discussions on Midgardian healing techniques. 

Thor continued to be full of surprises.  Loki barely recognized his brother at all.

These mortal men Blake paid so much focused attention to were the closest equivalent to the völur that mortals, being for the most past without magic, could achieve.  He had almost become accustomed to the quaint, primitive idea of men as healers.  Still, it was a surprise to find so many in one place, with few women to be found, and most of those apparently in some subordinate role. 

Something inside him was still astonished that Thor would, in any circumstances, choose a womanly career like healing.  Midgardians were strange.  Judging by the many men surrounding them who had been at the conference – and the very few women – his suspicions were confirmed that Midgard had utterly inverted standards.

When Blake had left the conference Loki slipped ahead of him and now stood beside the long dark wood bar, a stemmed glass in his hand containing a pale green Midgardian concoction he favored called a vodka gimlet.  He glanced casually around the room, which was filled with people from the same large gathering Blake had been attending for the past few days.  They were mostly pale-skinned men in the dark suits and ties they wore like uniforms.  He, of course, was wearing one of the same, perfectly tailored and of the best materials. 

Many of the men had mustaches.  It seemed to be the style, though Blake hadn’t grown one.  Loki would have thought he would have welcomed the return of even some of his facial hair, but apparently not.  He could not pinpoint why that thought disturbed him. 

The men milled around the room, sat at small side tables, or on stools at the bar.  Mahogany paneled walls and a patterned metal ceiling above created the impression of seclusion from the world outside.  It was similar to some Asgardian taverns, only without broken ceramic tankards littering the floor.

Loki tracked Blake’s progress around the room as he traded greetings and got into casual conversations with his fellow ‘doctors’.  Loki continued to wait, leaning against the bar, occasionally sipping at the sour concoction, never taking his eyes off Thor.  Until Thor started to turn in his direction, and then Loki looked away.

*****

Blake moved on after a quick conversation with a colleague he hadn’t seen since medical school, and was heading toward a booth in the far corner when something distracted him – he couldn’t say what.  He turned his head to the left, and there he was at the bar.  His face was turned away but Blake would know him anyway just by the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head.

A big smile broke out on his face as he changed direction and walked toward the bar.  He hadn’t seen him in years, in ages.  He hadn’t seen him since –

When had he seen him anyway?  He stumbled slightly, caught his footing.  And when he looked back at the bar the other man was looking directly at him.  Even in the dim lighting his angular face, framed by long ink-dark hair, was distinct, and Blake stepped forward.  He hadn’t seen him in –

He hesitated again.  He couldn’t remember his friend’s name.  Weird trick of the memory, but it happened sometimes.  He’d met so many people in the past few years; maybe it was someone he’d met at another conference, another friend from medical school early on, maybe – the thought sent a thread of unease through him, surrounded as he was now by colleagues – maybe he was even one of the men he had met at the Christopher Street bars. 

The man lifted a cocktail glass to his lips and sipped at some kind of pale green drink, staring intently at him out of startling green eyes.  A smile of recognition appeared on the thin angular face. 

Blake’s lips widened in a huge smile and he started walking forward again.  An instant later he’d joined the man at the bar.

“Shall we get a booth?” the man said without him even having said hello.

“It’s been ages,” he offered.

“Yes,” the man offered.  “It has been.”

He led the way to the same dark booth in the corner that had been Blake’s original destination.  They settled into their seats, the man held up a hand, and a waiter appeared almost immediately to take their drink orders.  Blake ordered his usual, a double whiskey.

Settled in, the other man watching him intently, Blake said, “Are you attending the conference?” hoping to figure out where he knew this man from.

The other man hummed and Blake, taking that for a yes, began discussing the panels he’d attended on the advances in surgical techniques, barely noticing when their drinks arrived.  The other man made encouraging remarks, and before he knew it, under the other man’s interested gaze, Blake was describing a recent surgery he had performed in terms that he wouldn’t ordinarily use.   “I thought I was going to lose the battle,” he said grimly.  “She’d lost so much blood.  I didn’t think she had a chance, even with the transfusion.  But she fought on – I fought on – I don’t think I’ve ever fought for anyone’s life harder that day.  It was a real battle.  But by the end – I knew I’d won.  She lived.  She’d live.  I’d won.”

He lapsed into silence and took a sip of his whiskey, feeling slightly surprised at himself.   And he still hadn’t been able to place where he’d met this man, who was watching him with a look of – what? He seemed startled – almost confused.

Well, he was confused too.  He could continue pretending, or he could just admit it and ask.  “I’m trying to remember where we met,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile.

What appeared to be disappointment crossed the other man’s face, and vanished in an instant, to be replaced with a rueful smile.   “I was wondering that myself.  Perhaps at another of these events?”

“I was thinking that myself,” Blake said, but it was like there was an itch in the back of his mind, telling him that wherever he had met this man before, it had been more than a casual conversation with another professional.  It again crossed his mind – **had** he met this man in one of the gay bars?  But no.  If he’d met this man in any of the bars he went to almost every time he visited the city, he would never have forgotten him.

It suddenly struck him – he didn’t even know if this man was another physician.   “Well, you already know I’m a surgeon,” he said.  The other man was watching him, head tilted at a quizzical angle.  One corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.  “What about you?  Are you a physician?”  At Loki’s pause he added, “Do you have a specialty?”

“Ah, no,” Loki said.  “I deal in medicines.”

“Ah,” Blake said, but a shiver crossed his skin as, for just an instant, he thought he’d heard something entirely different.  A quick shake of his head, then he focused his attention back on the other man, about to ask for details about his company and what type of pharmaceuticals they produced.  With a start, he realized he’d forgotten something important.  “I’m Donald Blake.  And you are…?”

“Luke Furst,” the man answered smoothly, and there it was again, that strange sort of rapid echo, as if some other words were being spoken underneath the ones he had heard.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him.  He sat very still.  The bar was filled with chattering people.  Pieces of disparate conversations eddied and surged around him.  It must be the noise level, he thought. Or maybe – he looked down at his half-empty glass – it was the alcohol.  He was tired.  It had been a long week.  He was glad the conference was over.  He had been looking forward to getting back home.  But now – there was something about this man that made him want to linger, to carry on the conversation. 

Before he had the chance to ask for any more details about Luke’s background, Luke picked up the conversation.  “How did you decide you wanted to become a physician?” he said.

Blake blinked, blushed, and focused.  He glanced at the cane resting against the bench seat and tapped it.  “I had poliomyelitis.”

Luke raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Blake paused, but when he didn’t receive any kind of response, he went on.  “That’s why I went into medicine.  I missed the Salk vaccine by just a few years.  I read everything I could about Jonas Salk and his team.  They were so inspiring!”  He tensed up.  “But I knew I wasn’t cut out for the kind of work he did.  That sort of genius, that inventiveness – that’s not me.  But fighting disease – healing the injured.  That was something I wanted to do.  That’s all I thought about for years – all I’ve worked towards for years.  And… I wanted to fight against it.  The stigma.  You know.  That anyone who got this disease deserved it.  That we were dirty – wrong – that we’d done something to bring this on ourselves.”  He heard the bitterness in his own voice, and sucked in a deep breath.

“Why would anyone think your becoming ill was your fault?”

Blake tried to interpret the strange look on the other man’s face, a mixture of bewilderment and a sort of distance, as if this were simply an intellectual puzzle to be figured out rather than something as emotionally hurtful as it had been for Blake.

Then again, maybe he was genuinely confused.  Since he’d started visiting New York City frequently, he’d become familiar with a wide variety of accents, but he wasn’t familiar with Luke’s.  He sipped his whiskey, ignored Luke’s question in favor of asking, “Where are you from?”

A burst of raucous laughter sounded from a group of men near their booth as Luke answered.  Blake shook his head.  Where was _Noregr_?  “What did you say?”

“Norway,” Luke said, quite clearly, and Blake decided he’d misheard.

“To answer your question,” Blake said, “I wanted to make a difference in the world.  To save lives.  I know this sounds cliché – people are so cynical these days – but I wanted to know I was doing something that actually mattered.”  He took another sip, unsettled by Luke’s intent gaze.  He frowned, trying to interpret the other man’s expression.  There was nothing of cynicism there – if anything, Luke seemed surprised.  Personally surprised, as if what Blake was saying was utterly unexpected. 

Blake drank some more and chuckled, feeling the alcohol burn through his veins.  “You seem startled.  Is idealism that hopelessly out of style?”

“Not at all.”  Luke gave him an urbane smile, and Blake, nettled by an odd note in the man’s expression, tossed back the rest of his drink.

He pulled in a breath and went on.  “Well, that’s just who I am, then.  Old-fashioned.” He paused, enjoying the warm feel of the alcohol spreading through him, helping put needed distance between him and the memories of a patient he had recently lost.  “Sometimes it’s hard,” he confessed.  “Harder than I could ever have imagined – when the prognosis is poor.  I lost a patient last week.  A construction worker – the platform collapsed and he was impaled on rebar.”  He paused, vivid images of the failed surgery racing through his head.  “He died on the table.  His wife and kids were waiting in the lobby.”  He grimaced.  “When I have to give people the bad news − I feel so helpless then.”

The waitress had appeared again, and he ordered another drink.  Maybe not a good idea, he thought, but the memory of that failure haunted him.  He was usually better at professional detachment than this, but young accident victims always got to him.  Though he had to be honest with himself, he’d been drinking a bit too much in the past few years.  He’d started drinking more when he began going to the bars – it gave him the courage he needed to approach men.  To have sex with them.  But he wasn’t like other guys he knew, both in his profession and at the bars, men who couldn’t face the day without booze. 

No.  He’d be fine.  It was just one more.  He could handle it.

“Do you ever think of giving up?” Luke asked, his expression intent. “Or choosing something else?  Your… country… was recently in a conflict.  Did you ever wish you could fight in your country’s war?” 

Blake laughed bitterly.  “I thought about being a medic, but the army wouldn’t have me.  And the more I thought about it, I wouldn’t have them.  Korea – Vietnam – what did it accomplish?  Hundreds of thousands of people dead.  So many more wounded, permanently maimed.  All that destruction.  And for what?  Russia and China are still Red.  There’s already another proxy war in Angola; how much longer before our soldiers wind up there too?  And the politicians just keep talking, and nothing changes.    So I figured I’d keep doing what I was already doing. Taking care of my patients here.  Keeping up with my profession.” 

There it was again – naked disbelief on the other man’s face.   “You surprise me.  I’ve heard many others who believe reckless violence is the solution to all things.”

“Well,” Blake said, suddenly angry, “that usually gets the innocent killed.  Arlington just keeps getting more crowded.  Armchair generals keep rattling their sabers.  Vainglorious idiots and the naïve.  It makes no sense.  We’re all the same, under the skin; but the people in charge just keep finding things to fight over.  Eisenhower had it right about the military industrial complex.   All those kids, wanting some kind of purpose, wind up wasting their lives in pursuit of glory.”

“Glory,” Luke said somberly, “A word often used by headstrong fools.”  Something had shadowed his eyes and stiffened his posture, and Blake wondered at the way the man’s gaze had gone distant, as if he were remembering some tragedy from his past.

Luke suddenly became aware of his gaze and consciously relaxed.  He gave Blake a bright smile that seemed designed to disguise some other kind of emotion entirely.

Blake fell silent and rubbed a finger along the rim of his glass.  He picked up his glass again and suddenly had to resist a bizarre impulse to hurl it to the floor.  He set it down carefully, staring at the glass, the taste of whiskey strong in his mouth.  He’d clearly had too much.

When he looked up, he was surprised to see Luke had leaned forward, long-fingered hands resting on the edge of the small booth table.  He seemed fascinated with Blake’s mouth. 

Then Luke looked up and met his gaze.  He didn’t look away.

Blake stared back, reckless fantasies racing through his head.   His groin tightened.  That odd sense of familiarity returned, redoubled.  He was hard and getting harder.  _Had_ he met this man in one of the bars, if only in passing?  Maybe that was it; the sense of familiarity only because he remembered his striking face. 

Should he just ask?  No, that was foolhardy.  He had to be careful.  After Stonewall, he’d realized what a coward he had been, denying who he was, staying celibate out of fear.  But he still had to be careful.  He still had to keep his secret.  He’d lose everything if he was outed. 

But there was such a sense of freedom in the air, such liberation, it was hard not to feel reckless and half-drunk on possibilities.  He’d been making frequent trips to New York City and every chance he got he’d go to the Greenwich Village gay bars.  He loved strolling down Christopher Street, watching all the men, and being watched in return.  This time, though, he’d been so busy with the after-hours socializing that was part of this conference he hadn’t had the time to go there. 

Memories of wild weekends, the bacchanalia at the Continental Baths early on, where he was one of hundreds of anonymous men, alcohol giving him the courage to do what he wanted.  Then, when the scene changed, he’d begun spending time at smaller clubs, meeting and having sex with different men.  Their faces ran through his head.  But the man he was with now… **Where** had he met him?

This fascinating man sitting opposite him was looking at him as if he knew his thoughts.  Knew what he wanted.

He wanted to know what that intriguing mouth tasted like.  He wanted to see what lay beneath the perfectly tailored trousers.  He wanted to know what that alabaster-pale skin felt like beneath his touch.  _You already know that_ , something strange whispered through his mind and disappeared as quickly.  “Do you,” he began to ask cautiously, “ever go to any of the bars in the Village?”

“Yes,” Luke said so smoothly, so quickly, that for an instant Blake had the gut instinct the other man was lying and regretted giving him his real name.

But the way Luke was staring at him - pupils dilated, lips parted.  The tip of his tongue emerged and ran deliberately across his upper lip, then retreated.  He looked at Blake expectantly.  He couldn’t have been sexier. 

Blake threw caution to the winds and downed the rest of his drink.  “I have some wine back at my hotel room.”

An absolutely filthy smile widened Luke’s mouth.  “Shall we go, then?” he replied in a voice that was sin itself.

More than half hard, Blake maneuvered his way out of the booth, glad to see the amount he had had to drink hadn’t affected his ability to walk.  He tossed some money at the table, more than enough to cover the cost and a big tip besides, and gestured expansively toward the door.  Luke fell in at his side, as if he had always been there, and they walked out into the night.


	8. Chapter 8

The noise and stink and glare of the Midgardian street hit Loki full force as they emerged into the night air.  Even at this late hour the sidewalks were crowded with people rushing in both directions, as tightly packed at the crossroads as herds of animals.  Lit by the steady glare of street-lights and the chaotic movement of colored lights displaying the names of various shops and eating places, they moved in a constant flood.  The place was absolutely filthy and crawling with life, beggars and nobility and artisans and whores and servants all making their way through the chaos, while in the shadows rats and cockroaches hid inside walls and gutters.  A fleet of yellow vehicles surged and halted through the streets, their drivers shouting oaths at each other through opened windows.  Food vendors were everywhere, and the air was laden with soot and full of the conflicting smells of food and garbage and gasoline and bus exhaust.

Under the tavern’s awning, Blake flashed a familiar smile at him, almost like the way Thor had smiled before his coronation, when everything was going his way, and he was carefree and confident with his world.   Almost.  But there was something about his expression which had changed; a new aspect to his eyes, as if he could see further than he ever had before.

Then Blake’s expression changed into something more simple and base:  desire.

Desire he shared.  He remembered with pleasure the almost dazed look of lust that had crossed Thor’s face when he had focused his attention on Loki’s mouth.  He had obligingly parted his lips and run his tongue briefly along the upper one. 

He followed Blake’s lead as he threaded his way through the crowd.  Anticipation had made him hard.  He’d been excited to meet Thor again.  He had been so surprisingly willing the last time, falling to his knees, taking his cock in his mouth, with only Loki’s suggestive words to spur him on. 

It was maddening, the way Thor almost remembered him, and then forgot again.  He would have thought by now he’d find some way to defeat Odin’s spell.  With the crystal Mother had obtained from Vanaheim, they’d completed the meticulous and painstaking work of building the spell. 

But before he tried it – would Thor let Loki have him?  He wanted him, so badly.  Blake was certainly was eager for sex now; his desire flaring around him in a red aura nearly as palpable as his clothing.  He’d fantasized this for years, having Thor the way Thor had frequently had him.  Images flooded his head and sharpened his need.  Thor was sometimes so impatient he’d rip Loki’s clothing off before Loki could bother to vanish it.  He’d sometimes been angered, sometimes pleased at how much need he inspired in his brother.

But now, could he take Thor’s role?  Rip Thor’s mortal clothing off his body?  He had imagined it a thousand times, Thor, kneeling before him, presenting his hole.  Would the mortal be surprised at his desire for this?  Would he be reluctant?  Could he seduce him into this forbidden act?  He imagined it, taking Thor, sinking in to that hot tightness he had always wanted and never had.  Or would Thor refuse him, the way he always had in the past? 

But if he was willing…  His heart rate increased.  He would make Thor argr and make Thor enjoy it. 

_Would Mjolnir accept Thor if he was argr?_ He’d wondered about that possibility but had no way to test it.  He thought of Mjolnir hidden away in a distant part of this realm by Odin, its magical energy like a beacon visible only to a very few.  But if Mjolnir rejected Thor, what then?  Did he even want Thor to be worthy again?

Thor, worthy again, would swagger back into Asgard and Loki would recede back into the shadows, what little favor he had gained with the populace forgotten with the return of the golden prince.  The thought made him angry and redoubled his desire for Thor to share in his shame, to have what Thor had always denied him, to be his equal, in this at least, at last.

Blake turned down a less populated side street.  Loki followed, automatically increasing his pace, then slowing again to match Blake’s slower, slightly uneven stride.  At that reminder of Thor’s affliction something hard and sharp clenched behind Loki’s breastbone.  _”That we were dirty – wrong – that we’d done something to bring this on ourselves.”_  That is what Blake had said, but what he had heard was, _Monster.  Something vile that deserves its fate._ Loki swallowed.  Nightmares still jolted him awake, terrified to look at his own skin, convinced he’d see that loathsome blue, see those hideous lines marring his skin.

It had never happened.  Yet.

But he did not understand why this Midgardian disease was a sign of monstrosity.  He did not understand the strange distinctions mortals had, their odd definitions of worthiness and unworthiness.  Thor had bragged about his knives − his _scalpels,_ he called them − how they were used to heal, not wound, not maim, not kill.  He thought of his own chosen blades and how often he had used them to save his friends in battle.  And how often he had been mocked for those weapons, so small and insignificant, nothing like the clash of sword and ax.

And now Thor had been shamed and demeaned and told he was vile and wrong – for something he clearly could not help.

There was something about that thought he did not want to look at and he forced his attention back to the man by his side.  Blake was looking sideways at him, his eyes bright with anticipation, and his body responded to that simple need.  But he couldn’t stop the thoughts chasing each other in a chaotic kaleidoscope through his mind, and it was a relief when they reached the door of the inn Blake was staying at. 

Blake took him through a small area with a servant standing behind a counter to the left.  To the right there was a small multicolored couch with an oval table in front of it, bound papers scattered across its surface.  Blake ignored the servant and took him to a metal door.  It slid open and he followed Blake into the clever conveyance mortals used to lift them up higher in their tall buildings.  It stopped, the door opened and Blake led the way down a long hall and paused before a door, inserting a piece of metal into the waiting lock.

Loki glanced around as they stepped into a small sleeping chamber, and caught a quick glimpse of a bed, which would be barely big enough to accommodate both of them, an armoire, one of their viewing devices on a table, a representation of a sea scene on canvas hung in a frame on the wall, and to the side, an opening to a small bathing chamber.

Then Blake had turned into his arms, already embracing him, and Loki, used to Thor taking the lead, automatically returned the embrace, seeking familiar comfort in the now-unfamiliar slender arms, the smaller body.  He was again surprised that the height differential between them had vanished, and that, if anything, Thor was slightly shorter now. 

He impulsively rubbed his cheek against the man’s stubbly chin, still amazed that Thor, under any circumstances, would willingly shave his beard.  He pulled back to find Blake had opened his mouth.  Loki pressed his lips to Blake’s and let his tongue go questing inside, sliding across the delicate inner skin of lip and teeth, exploring Blake’s tongue, his taste beneath the alcohol nearly the same as before, on Asgard, still tainted with the taste of his mortality.  He explored the hard peaks and valleys of teeth with his tongue and was startled by a metallic taste he did not understand, some foreign substance embedded in a few of his teeth.  Another mortal mystery. 

Blake, humming with pleasure, eagerly returned the kiss and he forgot the oddness, lost in the feeling of Thor’s mouth claiming his, his kiss just as he remembered it, his hands on his shoulders then his waist just like Thor had always done. 

But he couldn’t keep pretending he was back in Thor’s arms, the differences in height, in breadth, even in the mortal taste of his mouth and skin, were too obvious to let him lie to himself.

Blake’s hands were exploring, reaching up to undo the knot in his tie.  He began removing his clothing the mortal way.  Between ravenous kisses, they divested each other of their ties, their coats, their shirts.  Blake’s eyes met his with each action, and Loki was surprised by the needy, desperate way Blake looked at him as if reassuring himself this was all right.  It was so easy to let Blake initiate each move, to enjoy the demanding way he kissed and embraced him, so much like how Thor liked to take command.  So much like the way it had always been.  Before.

Blake’s fingers paused on the button of Loki’s fly, a question in his eyes.

“Yes,” Loki said, then gasped as Blake brushed his hand teasingly against the front of Loki’s pants then undid the button and pulled down the zipper.  Loki had not bothered with Midgardian underclothes, and his freed cock was already hard. 

Blake looked down with wide surprised eyes, then met Loki’s gaze.  Loki, who had been running his hands along Blake’s smooth shoulders, paused.  “What?”

“I don’t see this very often, that’s all,” Blake said, and chuckled.  “An uncircumcised man, that is,” he offered by way of explanation since Loki clearly didn’t understand his meaning.

The Allspeak offered a very disturbing translation.  _Surely not,_ Loki thought, horrified, his erection wilting.

But yes.  Impatient, Blake had perched on the edge of the bed, setting aside his cane, and was removing his pants and underwear.

He was so thin!  Loki had known that by their embrace, known Thor had only human musculature now.  Still, the reality of the thinness of Blake’s body was a shock.  But that surprise was nothing compared to what followed.

Loki stared aghast at Blake’s mutilated penis.  The foreskin had been removed completely.  Loki swallowed down queasiness and looked back into Blake’s quizzical eyes.  The other man seemed unaware of the horror that had been done to him.

“That’s right, you’re from Norway.  I’d forgotten that circumcision isn’t common in Europe,” Blake said.  Loki, aware his erection had faded, wiped the uneasiness from his face and offered Blake a reassuring smile.  “Well,” Blake got back to his feet, looking uncertain.

Loki stepped forward and, impelled by an unexpected, unwanted surge of protectiveness, embraced him, hands greedily stroking down Blake’s naked back then cupping his firm ass, his mouth pressing kisses to Blake’s face, his ears, his neck, then back to his lips, delving deep.  It was so good to hold him again, even in this shrunken Midgardian form, his scent and taste so familiar.  He held him close, wanting to keep him safe from all the dangers Midgard held for mortals.

When they pulled apart to catch their breath, the lines on Blake’s face were glaringly apparent.  There were more of them, Loki realized, than there had been the last time, around his eyes, etched beside his lips.  Only a handful of Midgardian years had passed since last he had seen him, but those years had left indelible marks on Blake’s skin.  And again, with his hands exploring Blake’s naked body, he was shocked anew by the tactile evidence of how bony he was, how little musculature he had, Thor’s fabulous strength nowhere present. 

Blake’s hands were everywhere now, touching, exploring, caressing, squeezing, and Loki’s cock came back to life.  He returned the caresses, still thinking too much, thoughts crashing in his head.  Blake then stepped back, his erection hard and beckoning, and Loki took a moment to remove his pants.  Blake moved to a bag he had on the table, rummaged inside, and produced a small tube marked with the Midgardian runes K-Y.  He looked at Loki over his shoulder.  “I believe in being prepared,” he said with a hungry smile. 

That was a mystery, but he didn’t question it.  Blake moved to the bed then stood to face Loki.  “You can tell me what you like.  I like being fucked.  But I’ll do it any way you want to.”

He could feel his jaw drop in shock.  An instant later incandescent rage flared through Loki the minute understanding hit.  Thor – was ALREADY **argr!** He let **other men** claim him?  **He LIKED it!?**

How **dare** he?  Loki should have been the first.  He should have been the **only** one.

Blake’s expression turned to one of alarm, and Loki realized what his face was revealing.  “My apologies,” he said smoothly, arranging his features to blankness.  “I was remembering – someone else.”

Blake pressed his lips together.  “We can do anything you want.  Or, nothing.  Your choice.”  He rested one hand on his cane.

Loki squeezed his eyes shut, opened them quickly, erasing all traces of rage and jealousy from his face, replacing it with a winning smile.  “Then we’ll do what you want.” 

Blake took in a deep breath.  For a moment he searched Loki’s features, then relaxed.  “I wish I could remember where we met,” he said, almost inaudibly, and stepped closer.  He squeezed something from the tube into his palm.  Loki’s cock surged as Blake’s wrapped that hand around his cock.  Loki took in a quick breath at the wet touch.  Pleasure shot through him as Blake pulled his hand down then jerked it back up, leaving his penis glistening and wet.

Far better than the bear grease and the oils mortals had used on his previous visits to Midgard, Loki thought, and then stopped thinking as Blake squeezed more gel into his hand then reached between his legs, obviously preparing himself.

Blake moved to the bed.  It took him a minute to position himself properly, compensating for the weakness in his leg.  He looked over his shoulder and gave Loki an encouragingly lewd smile.

Two steps, he was there, hands on Thor‘s ass, spreading his cheeks.  He wanted to take Blake the way Thor often took him – roughly, hard and fast, Thor’s sweaty body slick beneath him.

But Thor in this body – this mortal body – was so fragile. 

When he had imagined this, in his anger he had **wanted** Thor to be broken, wanted to revel in his fragility and pain.

The reality was a blow to his gut.  This mortal body was so breakable.  And he remembered the way Thor’s hands could be often be gentle, fingers around his cock knowing how to pull and squeeze and caress in turn, to give him such pleasure.  And after, Thor would press soft kisses to his face, hands slowing in gentle caresses, voice whispering endearments.

He was annoyed to see his hands were shaking. 

Blake’s breath was fast, and he looked back over his shoulder as if to ask what Loki was waiting for.

Loki brushed a finger across Thor’s hole, inserted it inside, and was relieved to feel that Thor was well-greased indeed.

“Go ahead,” Blake said roughly.  “Fuck me.”

A surge of desire flooded him at words he had never imagined hearing, so powerful that he almost grabbed Thor and shoved himself right in.  But he forced himself to wait, to savor the moment he had wanted for so long.  Thor wanted this!  Inconceivable.

He positioned himself, his cock urging him to shove in, to enjoy Thor the same way he had been enjoyed.  Instead, carefully, slowly, he pushed, slipping in slowly past the ring of muscle into the tight passage beyond, sucking in his breath at the bright pleasure.

“I won’t break,” Blake said through gritted teeth.  “Do it.”

That reminder of how often Blake must have done this sent a surge of anger and lust through him.  He shoved in all the way, pulled back, did it again.  Disbelieving, he stared down at Blake’s thin back, then focused his gaze on the short bright hair.  At least that hadn’t changed, and the sight increased his pleasure.  It was so good that Thor was so willing, so good he wanted him.  He pulled back again.  Watching his cock enter Thor’s body made him harder.  How long he had wanted this and it was happening, it was happening **now.** Blake shouted, and he paused, afraid he could break him this way, perhaps fatally. 

“Touch me,” Blake demanded, clearly not in distress. 

Loki paused, hesitant to touch that damaged cock.  Blake growled wordlessly, in that deep voice Thor always had when he was impatient.  Loki responded instantly to that familiar tone, snaking a hand beneath Blake’s belly.  He cautiously wrapped his fingers loosely around Blake’s penis, wondering if he would find the touch painful even though the wound was clearly long-since healed. 

Blake, clearly not in pain, moaned and thrust into his hand.  He tightened his fingers and then held it firmly, letting Blake rut against it.  His own cock demanded more, and he pulled back, thrust in again. 

Blake was shouting words of encouragement, and Loki found his pace, a slow drag out, then plunge in.  Blake kept up a stream of encouragement, “Yes – that’s it – THERE – YES – fuck me – harder!”

Inflamed by these words he kept up the pace, over and over, the drag and push in that tightness, Blake’s muscles squeezing him.  He didn’t need to think at all, and that was pure pleasure too as he lost himself in that connection between them, using his hand to pleasure Blake, no longer worried about hurting the other man. 

Thor’s penis was surging against his hand, and then he was shouting and coming, muscles squeezing wildly against Loki’s cock and he was coming too, hips stuttering rapidly, the ecstatic peak whiting out his brain.

After, he rolled over on his side.  Blake turned to him, looking dazed and spent and utterly satisfied.  Blake gave him a sweet smile and threw an arm over him.  “Stay, if you like,” he murmured and pressed a kiss to Loki’s lips, and trailed his fingers along Loki’s arms, just the way he always did, when they were done.  With a surge of joy and sorrow, Loki returned the embrace, settling his arm around Thor’s waist.  Blake was smiling at him, and the affectionate look in those blue eyes was so familiar he could almost pretend this was real. 

He had thought Thor would be shamed, now that passion was spent, at what he had allowed.  Clearly not, based on Blake’s eager participation and pleased expression.   In the past, Thor’s pure golden affection almost always erased, if only temporarily, the worm of resentment that had always filled him that even in this they had never been equals, that Thor took and he gave.  Now, he had taken, and he basked in the afterglow.

Blake gave him one last sleepy smile, then his eyes slid shut.  Loki felt himself relaxing and thought it wouldn’t hurt to just lie here for a few minutes before casting the spell.  His gaze swept down Blake’s body.  Fingertip shaped dark marks marred his skin.  He had bruised him.  That surprised him and he felt pleasure at having marked him, underlined with a twinge of fear on how easily he could be injured. 

How easily he could die. 

He ran a fingertip over one bruise and Blake stirred and whispered, “I wanted you to take me.  I always did.” 

Loki jolted wide awake.  “What did you say?”  When Blake didn’t stir, he grabbed him roughly by his shoulders.  “Thor, do you know me?” 

Blake half-opened his eyes, but his gaze was blank, uncomprehending. 

“Thor!” Loki shouted, but Blake’s eyes didn’t focus.  Loki concentrated, then spoke the words of the spell Mother had discovered in a book of sorcery hidden in a magically concealed cabinet in Odin’s most secluded chamber.  The spell he had been practicing since the failure of the last one.  The palest of green gold auras emerged from his fingertips and surrounded Blake’s body like a lover, shimmered along the surface of his pale skin like a golden caress, then dissipated without attaining entry.

Loki sat up, looking at Thor.  His head was resting against the white pillow.  His eyes were closed, his breathing even, but so deeply asleep it was more than clear Odin’s spell had held yet again.  “Thor,” he said.  Then, his voice breaking, the words spilled out of him in an uncontrollable flood of rage and pain and fear.  “Mother and I have tried everything!  EVERYTHING!  Every spell we know.  We have consulted every ancient book in the library.  Mother said if this didn’t work the spell must run its course and it cannot be diverted.  So what do we do now?  We are both argr.  Neither of us is worthy to be king.  And I am not to blame.  If you ever remember - how will you feel when you remember what we did?  You’ll hate me, I suppose.  Your argr little brother.  But remember, you were the one who did it to me first.” 

Breathing heavily, he sat for a long moment, watching Thor’s face.  He lay unmoving, only the steady rise and fall of his chest betraying that he lived.   So much was different, but the length of his long golden eyelashes, the shape of his eyebrows, his hairline…  At least that remained the same.  Anger had fled, making room for despair he did not want to feel.  They had failed again.  How much time did they have left?

He gently kissed Blake’s forehead and ran his fingers through the short hair.  He then rested his hand against Thor’s neck and cheek, Thor’s chosen caress for him.  Blake’s eyes had opened again and something seemed to stir in their depths.  As if dragging his arms through water Blake reached for him and Loki felt a sudden leap of hope.  He settled back beside him and Blake wound one arm around him, pressing their bodies close.  There was no hint of arousal in his actions, but rather desperation.  He cuddled and clung and pressed his face against Loki, held him tight, as if he never wanted to let him go.   “Don’t…. leave…” he slurred, and Loki’s fingers dug deeper.

“Thor,” he said again.  “Thor!”  But Blake’s eyes closed again, his body went limp, his arm slowly trailed off Loki’s body and fell to his side, and he relaxed into sleep.

“Remember me,” Loki whispered hopelessly into Blake’s ear and got up.  He stood watching him for another long moment.  He should have known it wouldn’t work.  Despite all of his studies and work, nothing he or Mother had come up with was enough to counteract Odin’s spell.  And with the old man still in the Odinsleep, there were none who could do so.

He sucked in a deep breath.  Exhaled again, and wished he could feel nothing at all.  He vanished back to Asgard.

*****

Blake woke up with a start with the oddest feeling that somehow something had swirled around his entire body, seeking entrance – and then had been repulsed.

He sat up and looked around wildly.  He was alone.  The sheets had been pulled out and were rumpled and the bedspread and one of the pillows was on the floor.  He’d brought – someone – back with him to the hotel room. 

His head pounding, he tried to remember what the man had looked like.  But no image came to mind.  His body remembered, though; it was reminding him he’d been well fucked.  And, looking down, he saw fingertip-sized bruises on his biceps and hips.  He brushed a hand over one.  It ached. 

He smiled crookedly.  He’d clearly had a good time.  He just wished he could remember it.

Had he really had that much to drink?  He remembered going to a bar after the last conference was over, talking with colleagues.  And then he’d met a man. 

But he couldn’t remember what he looked like.

No more drinking, he swore, his head aching ferociously.  He knew he’d been drinking a lot lately – it made things so much easier – but this was scary.

No more drinking.  Not if it came to this.  He’d never had a blackout before.

Unsettled, he got up, used the bathroom, scrubbed at his face with a washcloth, brushed his teeth and showered.  But he could not rid himself of the strangest sensation that his body somehow didn’t belong to him.

A sensation he had been feeling more frequently as of late.  As had his longstanding impression of being watched.

Maybe he should consult a neurologist.

Or maybe he just needed to do something entirely different with his life.

He finished packing, contemplating various options.  He’d be forty in a couple of years.  It was definitely time to take stock.


	9. Chapter 9

_Asgard_

The day came when Loki sat on the council chamber throne, Frigga on the one next to him, and no one disputed his right to be there.  Odin slept on, and now some whispered he might never awake, but that did not bring fear to the population in the way it would have just a decade or two ago.  Now, petitioners looked at him with trust and confidence, for now many knew of his wise decisions, for all who petitioned him now always felt they had received the better of the deal and something extra besides, that Loki had looked upon them, and them alone, with special favor.  The commoners, also, were pleased with the money that the dwarves were paying for the privileges of the Prince’s magicks.  The largess he bestowed on the populace, the spectacles and feasts and the power of the royal purse to make merchants rich, all created a sense of satisfaction in the populace.

As for Asgard’s warrior elite, Loki found enough minor forays on outlying worlds to keep them occupied chasing the pirates and marauders who dared test Asgard’s might.  He particularly enjoyed sending Tyr and some of the older warriors to chase enemies which were magical constructs of his own creation.  It got them out of the way and no one ever guessed.

He had taken to spending a great deal of time in the Vault familiarizing himself with all that lay within.  Now he stood at the end of the hall, close to where the Destroyer lay in wait for any enemies.  The Destroyer that had been let loose by his own machinations.  The Destroyer, which had killed the Asgardian guards that had rushed in to protect the contents of the Vault.   He often wondered how it would have gone had he chosen not to follow through with his plan, not let the Jötnar into the Vault, not ruined Thor’s coronation. 

He always came up with the same answer:  Thor would have destroyed them all in his zeal for war.

He did not regret his actions.  At all.  Except in the darkness of night when these thoughts arose and overwhelmed him and his mind began showing him other plans, other consequences, other futures.  If Odin had told him the truth years ago, could he have become reconciled to himself and found some way to make peace with the Jötnar?  Could that have changed things?  If the coronation had gone ahead as planned, would he have been able to temper Thor’s actions? 

_Know your place, brother._

Thor’s words echoed in his memory, and he shoved speculation from his mind.  He could not change what happened in the past.  Regret was useless. 

There the Casket lay, atop its pedestal, the twist and turn and pulse of the icy light, the slow inexorable surge of the captured energy of winter’s heart, moving to its own will, its own command, yet caught and held, unfree, testing its bonds, beckoning for his touch.

And he longed to touch it, longed, despite the revulsion the sight of it brought him.  It called to him, in a thousand voices, speaking in the tones of the deep subterranean rumbles of glaciers moving in their own eternal time, the creep of ice crossing land, the crack of frozen things breaking under their own weight, as the ice claimed, as it possessed, as it engulfed and moved on, inch by inevitable inch. 

His fingers, not heeding his thoughts, reached out to the casing and paused.

_I am you,_ it said.  _You are me._   _Claim me now, have me, and you will know your own power._

He shivered in the face of its eternal chill, though he did not feel the cold.

Then touch – a band of warmth encircling his waist.  He did not question her presence.  He’d known she’d entered, though he hadn’t turned.  “Mother,” he said, without looking, and the Queen said, “Son.”

He dropped his hand to his side.  He did not turn to look at her.  He stood looking at the Casket for a long time after that, lost in fascination.  She asked no questions, said nothing else, but continued to hold him in her one-armed embrace.  Finally his right arm settled around her shoulders.

Frigga began speaking as if they had already been conversing, “I have been to Alfheim.  I have been entrusted with their most secret books of sorcery.  They are in your chambers now.”

Loki turned in her embrace to face her, “I will read then all.” 

“This is your power,” she said at last, looking toward the Casket.  “It fascinates you,” she murmured, “And you fear it.”

He stiffened, and she gave him a gentle smile.  “Will you not talk to me about this?”

“What more is there to say?” he asked.  All the explanations she had given him over the years, her regrets, her hope, her love of him.  Every word had been healing, but it was a surface healing, leaving untouched a hard scarred wound deep inside.  She opened her mouth to speak again, but he forestalled her.  “I believe,” he said, quite calmly, looking away.  He indicated the Casket, “I know the answer to the Jotunheim problem.”

“Tell me,” she said when he didn’t speak.  He kept staring at the icy brilliant lights, then at last turned and looked into her troubled eyes.

When at last his words and her objections were spoken and she had left, he laid his hands upon the Casket.  He watched the blue surge up his arms, the lines chasing after the color, and felt its hard cold frozen spirit call to his blood.  “They will never have your life, Thor.  I swear it.”

*****

_Midgard, Lebanon, Beirut, 1978_

There he was.  His hair still shone bright-gold, but there were new lines in his face now, and a greater sense of gravity around him.  He looked older now than Thor ever had looked, a man settling into more mature years, a man, no longer a boy, years older than the arrogant young man Thor had been on the eve of his coronation.

There wasn’t much time left.  What if…  Loki swallowed.

What if Thor never proved himself worthy?  What if he died before Odin awoke?

This time, he was armed with a new spell he had crafted from the knowledge he had gained from the rare books from Alfheim he’d been privileged to read, loaned as part of Asgard’s strengthened alliance with the elves.  This spell, he was certain, would work.

Loki had slipped like a ghost for the past many days through the bombed out streets and the shattered remains of the elegant buildings in this ruined city.  The buildings still standing were pockmarked with projectile fire; its inhabitants huddled behind walls or fighting fierce battles in the streets.

Loki had been watching Blake since his arrival here some days ago attracted his attention.  Blake had immediately set to work in the lower level of a structure in an area that had once accommodated vehicles and now had been turned into a makeshift healing chamber.  Men pushed gurneys bearing fallen soldiers bleeding from their wounds through the streets, through occasional firing of projectile weapons, bringing them to this structure.  Blake had been working almost nonstop since then, performing surgery after surgery in the primitive quarters, barely taking time to eat or take brief naps.

Loki pondered the ironies.  Thor, in a tiny Midgardian kingdom torn by war, acting as healer to attempt to save lives, while all around him men fought each other, for whatever Midgardian concepts of honor and sovereignty and territory that mattered to them now, while Thor – Blake – and the other healers did their best to repair the bodies of those who lived.  Moments before, Loki had spied on him, using his primitive knives and other implements to attempt to cure a soldier shot in the gut, who despite Blake’s efforts had died beneath his hands.

Blake had emerged from the chamber and paused by a pillar in the middle of the outer larger chamber.  He was staring blankly off into space, his blue eyes shadowed with weariness.  His brow furrowed as another man approached and they engaged in an intense conversation. 

The other man walked away and Blake dragged a hand across his forehead.  He leaned heavily on his cane, staring down at the oil-stained concrete, palpable weariness on his face.  Then, Blake took in a deep breath and started to turn back to the surgery when he caught sight of Loki.

There was such a warm smile and light of recognition in his eyes that Loki almost believed…

But then – just like before – that light faded to puzzlement.  Still, Blake approached, his limp pronounced.  Loki greeted him with a genuine smile, masking his sudden fear.  People were dying in the streets everywhere in this city.  No place was safe.  His desperate awareness of Thor’s mortality intensified.  Should he die now without proving his worth – and what _would_ prove his worth in the Old Man’s eyes – what then?  Loki suddenly realized a bitter irony – after death, they would both be considered worthy of only Hela’s domain.  No everlasting honor and glory for Thor in Valhalla.

But would Donald Blake be admitted to Hela’s domain, or to one of the realms for the mortal dead?

Blake stopped in front of him with a quizzical look on his face.  “Have we met?”  Exhaustion had carved deep lines into his face, and the skin beneath his eyes looked bruised.  He looked so very much older than the last time they had met, such a short time ago.

“Yes,” Loki said.  “At a conference in New York.  I recognized you when I saw you.”

Blake shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips.  “I’m afraid I don’t remember you,” he said apologetically.

“There were quite a large number of people there.  I’m Luke Furst.”

“Donald Blake.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I coordinate supplies,” Loki lied, to save himself even more difficult lies and mask his lack of knowledge of mortal healing. 

“Ah!” Blake brightened and rattled off a list of desperately needed equipment and medications. 

“Yes, we have all of those,” Loki assured him.  Blake’s face broke out in a big smile as Loki calculated the amount of time and magic needed to provide all that Blake wished for – once he determined what those items actually were.

“Thank you.”  For the first time, the look of exhaustion lifted from Blake’s face.  “We need everything we can get.  I was just going to get something to eat.  Do you want to come with me?”

Minutes later, Loki was sipping some foul brew and eating food out of a tin off a packing crate in a storage room on the same level as the healing chamber.  Loki took one swallow of the “coffee” before he set it aside, and took one bite of the contents of a can labeled “turkey loaf”.  Blake wolfed down the contents of his can, smeared some kind of bright yellow spread on some hard biscuits, ate those too, and drank cup after cup of coffee, all the while discussing the needs of the woefully inadequate healing chamber in highly technical terms.

“When last I saw you,” Loki mused during a break in the conversation, “You were a highly successful physician.  Why this?”

“Volunteer for Doctors Without Borders?  I’d like to think we’re making a difference.” Fatigue was stamped on his face and had hoarsened his voice.  “To them, at least.  When they recover – if they recover – they might be back here the next day.  Or dead.” 

“Some of the populace flees every day.”

“Refugees facing starvation, disease…”  His voice trailed off.

“You have helped many,” Loki offered, suddenly tired of that dejected look on Blake’s face.  “But there are so many without help.  Don’t you ever think of giving up?”

“I don’t believe in giving up.”  Blake lifted his head, his blue eyes flashing with Thor’s resolution, his determination to fight to the end, surrender never an option.

“And what of those who consider this a just war?  Who fight for their own people?”

“’Just war’!” Blake barked a harsh laugh.  “Is there such a thing?  Yes, yes, I know – World War II.  But Korea, Vietnam, the saber rattling, the Cold War, it just grinds on and on.  It’s always about territory, about who has the land.  And the lust for power.  And for what?  Miles and miles of gravestones.  Here we are, in a city once called the Paris of the Middle East, torn apart by religion.  Thousands of people massacred in the name of religion.  The diplomats and the peacekeepers keep talking, but there are so many sides, so many groups getting involved, and the massacres and bombings continue.  And for what?”  His fists clenched at his sides.  “We do what we can for as many as we can.”

Loki caught his breath, speechless at what he was hearing.  “Do men no longer fight for glory?”

Blake looked shocked.  “Glory?  Where’s the glory in death?  Any death?  Particularly this kind of death.”

Loki said nothing for a second, then went on quietly.  “I have never seen it.  Though I know many others who live only for joy of battle, the honors and rewards for defending their lands.”

Blake’s face twisted in scorn.  “A good part of why this world is in the condition it is in.”  Blake blew out a sigh and with the help of his cane stood up.  He paused as Loki stood as well, and they simultaneously took a step toward each other.  “Just a chance meeting at a conference?” Blake said.  “You seem so familiar – did we spend any time together?”

“An evening at a tavern,” Loki replied.  “And then… back at your hotel room.”

Blake’s gaze sharpened, then he shook his head.  “Was I drinking?”

“We both were.”

Blake shook his head ruefully.  “I don’t remember.  I’m sorry.” But there was a sudden speculative look in his eyes, and Loki seized on it.  He remembered _something_ – he was sure of it.

“Do not be,” Loki said, hating the catch in his voice, hating his confused feelings about a Thor so changed into exactly who he had hoped he could be, a man who could calculate the cost of war in the lives that were lost rather than the glory to be won.   Hating Odin, for what he had done.

There was a commotion outside, and Blake headed to the storeroom door.  Loki followed in time to see more gurneys being hurried inside.  A man emerged from another room and called to him.

“I have to go,” Blake said.  His weariness fell away and a fierce light filled his blue eyes, the light of one about to do battle and laugh at the odds.  A look Loki had seen a thousand times before.  The only difference was – this Thor knew what it meant to lose.  And yet he kept returning to fight anew, aware that he might lose, but never willing to surrender.  “Good to see you, Mr….”  he said as he turned to walk way.  He glanced back over his shoulder.  “Thank you in advance for bringing us those supplies.  They’re desperately needed.”

As he walked toward the gurneys, favoring his leg, Loki made an elaborate gesture.  “Remember me,” he said with a note of poignancy and sadness in his voice.

Blake stopped, stood absolutely still.  Then he shivered all over, as if his body was trying to throw something off.  A moment passed, then he kept going.  He did not turn back to Loki again. 

Loki watched him walk off to fight a battle Thor would have formerly scorned to consider, crushed by an overwhelming sense of dread.  

Everyone disappeared, leaving this outer chamber empty.  Somewhere in the distance he heard the rattle of weaponry.

Those long weeks he had spent studying the books that Mother had brought to him, all that time spent practicing this last final spell, desperately hoping that it would succeed – useless.

The spell had failed.  There were no other options.  For the first time it was real – Thor was going to die a mortal death, and there was nothing he could do about it.  Something sharp and broken stabbed inside him.  He caught his breath – and vanished.

*****

Next morning, crates of medical supplies appeared in the makeshift hospital addressed to Blake, much to his surprise.  Neither he nor anyone else knew where they came from or who had sent them.

Somewhere in New Jersey the police were called to investigate several separate thefts of medical supplies from various warehouses.


	10. Chapter 10

_Asgard_

Mother was waiting in his chamber when he returned.  She went to him, and he saw by the desolation in her eyes that she knew, that she understood.

“I will continue to search the books,” he said, but the fractional shake of her head showed she knew he would not have overlooked anything.  After a moment’s silence, he said, “You have seen how he is now.”

 “He is in the middle of war,” she said.  “But he is not a warrior.  He does not defend himself.”

“No.  His battles are the battles Eir and the vǫlur fight, not those of his former choosing.”

Her shoulders slumped fractionally.  “How can he return to us now?  My husband could never have foreseen he would make this kind of choice.”

“He cast him among mortals.  They have strange ways.  It is all,” Loki snarled, “upon Father’s head.”  He expected a look of reproval, would have welcomed it, welcomed anything other than the look of fear on her face. 

“Thor has learned the lesson my husband set to him, to learn humility, only too well.  If he is not worthy now, he will never be.”  Her blue eyes blazed, their fierce determination the same look as what he always saw in Thor’s eyes when he was about to head out to fight a battle.  He noted suddenly the gold in her hair was the exact same shade Thor’s was now, the lines on her face attesting to the years she had lived similar now to those on Thor’s face.Frigga laid a hand on his arm.  “Come with me.  I cannot believe that this is what he intended with that spell.  He could not have foreseen this.”

He followed her through the complexities of the royal private chambers.  The Einherjar kept to their posts or followed them, as dictated by their positions, stopping when they finally came to the most closely guarded chamber of all.  For all the realms now knew Odin had been in his Sleep for far longer than he had ever been, all were aware of the tensions between Asgard and Jotunheim.  Loki had not had to bother with magical constructs of late to keep Asgard’s warriors busy; there were always too many real marauders testing the borders of the Nine, and the danger of an invasion into their space, of an attempt on Asgard, on Odin’s life, grew every day.

The guards stood aside as Frigga opened the seals.  They entered, and she closed the chamber again.  The thick magic of the protective wards permeated the golden netting cocooning the bed and was infiltrated as well into the structure of the walls, the floor, the ceiling.  Power hummed in the air, an electric feeling that prickled his skin.  

Frigga moved to stand toward the head of the bed.  Loki took his place by her side. 

“My love, please,” she started, her voice ragged, hoarse.  She bent towards Odin, resting a hand above his.  She took a moment, blinking her eyes free of the sheen of tears.  “Our son is dying.  He has but a few years to live, and then all will be lost.  He has proved himself worthy in the way you desired.  Will you not awaken and release him from your spell?  Will you not give us some sign?  Please, before it is too late.” 

The seconds dragged out, but nothing changed.  Odin did not move, not the slightest twitch, not the smallest hint of eye movement beneath his closed lids, betrayed any indication of any response to their presence.

Frigga’s face was tense with fear when she turned to Loki.  “What are we going to do?”

His gaze was fixed on Odin’s face, but his vision was far away.  “I do not know,” he said at last, though he had begun to understand just what he needed to do. 

*****

A half dozen servants filed into the Queen’s private sitting-room, bringing the meal she had ordered.  Following her quick commands to ignore the protocol of when each item should be served, dishes and utensils were placed, wine was poured and food was served.  Additional serving containers filled with a bounty of food were positioned in the center of the table, laid out precisely in course order.  Then, silently, they backed out of the chamber, out of the presence of the Queen and the Prince.

Frigga toyed with her wineglass but ate nothing.  “We have had word from the Jötnar ambassador in response to your proposal for reparations.”

Loki lifted his eyebrows inquiringly, leaning forward without realizing it.  She seemed more intent on the glass in her hand.  Then she set it down and looked into his eyes, her face carefully masked of emotion.  “As you requested, King Laufey will come himself.”

“My sire.”  Loki shut his mouth.  His lips tightened.

“Are you still certain this is what you want to do?”  Now he heard it, saw it, the fear and concern she was trying to conceal.

“Oh, yes,” he said with a forced smile, though all the reasons why this was a terrible idea, all of the tempting alternatives he had contemplated, raged through his mind.

Frigga’s eyes narrowed. “He will be accompanied by a full retinue of his guards.”  Frigga paused until he nodded for her to continue.  “He has asked us to pledge,” she said slowly, enunciating each word clearly, “on the honor of all the Aesir that none shall come to harm while they are our guests.”

The corners of Loki’s lips twitched upward in a smile.  “Send him that assurance,” Loki said.

“Do not think the wording of that request gives you a reason to forswear yourself.”  She lifted a stern eyebrow, a look he recognized as being the one she’d always used when she’d seen through his mischief as a child.  The look that said, _you can fool Thor, you can fool your father, but you can never fool me._

“Because I am not Aesir?”  He tilted his head, eyes bright.  “Or because I have no honor?”

“If you had no honor, you would not have decided upon this course of action.  But it is dangerous.  You know what you are risking,” Frigga said, the corners of her eyes tight with concern.

“I do.”  He gave her a cocky smile.  “I can deal with Laufey.”

“Be very careful.  He has not held on to his kingship for so long by being a fool.” She smiled that Mother knows best smile, and he stood straighter, looming over her. 

“Then why did he invade Midgard and bring Father’s wrath down upon them?” 

“The politics of that time were more complicated.  Vanaheim had cut off their trade, and they needed Midgard’s resources.  Laufey was younger then, and,” her posture stiffened, “His father was renowned as a great warrior.  Laufey, however, had not had the same victories.  I suppose he felt he had something to prove.”

He let that slide past in silence, stilling the tapping of his fingers an instant too late.

She’d seen, of course.  She persisted, “You must be certain.  If your plan fails, you, out of all of us, will pay the highest price.”

He stood, tall and regal, and looked down at her.  “I am certain, Mother.  It will save us from war, for if we do as the Jötnar require and slay many of our own people, all the relations and affinity of those slain will demand revenge, and so it will carry on.  And they will blame us.  And I have better things to do than wage war.”  He smirked.  “Is anything more simpleminded and boring than all the hacking and stabbing?  All the destruction?  When there are so many more interesting things to do?”

“Ah, what plans do you now have in mind, for I see you are thinking very far ahead?”  She shook her head.  “You need not tell me.  You never have.”  She gave him an indulgent smile, which faded.  “But please…”  She pulled his head down until she could kiss his forehead.  “Please be careful.”

“Unlike Thor,” he said, “I have a mind.”

She laid a hand on his arm and led him to where she had a _hnefatafl_ board set up. 

“We face grave peril and Asgard has been without a king for far too long,” she said as she sat.  “The red, or the white?”

He picked up a red piece, the color entrusted to the defense of the king.  He rolled its hard edges in his fingers, then rubbed his thumb over the incised lines depicting the king’s face, the sensation sharp against his skin.  “The red.”  He did not say which king he was pledging to defend.

She saw something in his eyes.  She gave him a discerning gaze and chose a white piece.  “I cannot make you king.  But I can make you co-regent.  And if the worst happens…”  She pressed her lips together.  “I will step aside.  Asgard must have one ruler.”

“It is unprecedented,” he said, “To have a co-regent.”

“If we, as royalty, cannot change the rules,” she said.  “Who can?”

She made a move.  The game began.  _What did it mean,_ Loki wondered, _that she was content with the opposing side?  Content with attacking the king.  She won as often as he did._

But, tonight, he had the victory.  She stood and gave him an approving smile.  “I’m proud of you, son,” and he felt pleasure swelling inside him at her words.  “Tomorrow, I will make you co-regent.  You will have the right to sit on the throne.”

*****

Queen Frigga ordered the Einherjar to stay outside the great throne room, and spelled the doors to open only to her or Loki’s touch. 

They walked, side by side, down the lengthy corridor and Loki imagined the presence of the thousands who had come to see Thor’s coronation and gone home deprived of the spectacle, yet rewarded by the opportunity for gossip.

Perhaps the day would come when it was he who would turn to face the admiring crowd.  He saw it now:  himself in furs and the long flowing royal cape, multitudes screaming his name with love and approval.  But that fantasy could only be achieved by an awful price.  It could only happen if Thor were dead.  He swallowed down his fear.  He had so little time left.

They ascended the stairs together.  There, Gungnir in hand, she stepped aside.  He stepped forward, then stopped when she laid a hand on his arm.  “Though we say this in private, it is no less binding.  You must swear the oath to guard the Nine realms, to preserve the peace, to cast aside all selfish ambitions and work for the good of the realm.”

“I swear,” he said, remembering how she herself had taken the oath when she had taken the regency and considering the way she had phrased it, almost as if she were speaking this as something to be done in the future.  His mouth twitched and she gave him a hard look.  “We both enjoy breaking protocol from the shadows, do we not?” he said lightly.  “Why bother to consult the Council?  It’s so much easier this way.”

“Do not think,” she said, “that I will not hold you to the spirit of this oath.  But you and I both know there are many ways of achieving desired objectives.”

She kept Gungnir in her hand.  She gestured to the throne.

Excitement filled him, electric in its intensity as he ascended and turned and sat.

“Oh,” he whispered, his gaze went farseeing as the power crashed over him surging and singing with a billion voices, galvanizing every cell in his body.  His vision went blank, and black, and red, and then the tide receded.

Now everything was so clear.  Everything visible to him in hyper detail.  There were people walking and talking in the streets, merchants selling their goods, people laughing and drinking in the taverns.  There was Heimdall at his post at the end of the Bifrost.  And there…

He turned his gaze to Midgard.  There was Thor in his desert hospital, with a white mask over the lower part of his face, his hands busy with some arcane surgical procedure to repair the body of the unconscious warrior on the table before him, so close to him it was as if he had only to reach out one hand to touch him.

But then his gaze went further.  He saw the building Thor was in, and then, retreating, the neighborhood, then, retreating, the devastated city, then the desert land, the small scattered settlements and larger towns alike.

Then the continent.

Then the hemisphere.

Then the turning globe, covered everywhere with the scars of war.  And here and there bright green and blue and gold points of light, places and intricate lines of power, of Midgard’s primeval seiðr, and the seiðr of those few among its people who still possessed it.

He focused on one bright beam of blue light, and there it was, the object Odin had sent from the Vault a millennium ago, the Tesseract.  Hidden in some underground mortal facility, caged in a box, with mortals seeking to understand its mysteries.  He smiled.

“That’s worth a look…” he murmured to himself.  Father had quite a collection.  Perhaps he should start one of his own. 

He turned his attention to Vanaheim and then to Alfheim, and saw sparkling lights, hidden from all other views.  Objects of magic and power.  He viewed them with greed.  What he couldn’t do with even half of those…

“Loki?” He heard Frigga’s voice distantly,

He murmured, “A moment.”  He turned his attention to where he should have looked first, to where he must, absolutely, look.  To the frozen broken scarred ruin of Jotunheim.  To the monsters infesting the broken palace, Laufey and his Council, deep in discussions about Mother and him and all of Asgard’s might and how they might best achieve their aims.

To their buildings and burrows and to the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the surface of their world where many of them dwelled, close to the hot springs where lived and grew the sources of their food.

And to their weapons.  And yes, there were the greens and golds and blues of seiðr, studded here and there in the ice tunnels, nodes and points of power, being formed into a pattern, an array which could collect and amplify their power a hundredfold.  Minor things, compared to the Casket, but valuable and useful all the same.  He made note of everything he saw.

“Loki?”

He drew in a deep breath and turned his gaze up to Frigga who was standing directly in front of him.  A pity Odin had never thought fit to grant his Queen a throne of her own.  “Were you ever there?  Before the war?”

“Once.”

“What was it like?”

“Vast buildings made of stone and ice shimmering in a thousand shades of blue and violent and lilac, brighter then than it is now, with the Casket enshrined within the palace walls, its power giving light and beauty to their world.”

“And my sire – what was he like?”

“Regal.  Arrogant.  Much like your father.  Do not,” she said, laying a hand on his lips, “Deny him.  The one on Jotunheim’s throne is worth nothing.  Your father chose you and saved you, and we both love you.”

“Saved me for what?  Oh yes,” he waved a hand.  “Odin’s plan to use me as a means of peace between our kingdoms, yes?”

“It stopped being just that long ago.”

“Are you sure?” he turned his gaze from her, focusing inward, examining Laufey’s stern face.  “It’s time I fulfilled his original purpose for me.”

*****

Loki paced.  Paced beside Odin’s huge bed, then paused and stared at the sleeping face, veiled by the golden latticework.  “Liar.  **Liar**.  I don’t care what Mother said.  You wanted to use me, but I have made my own choice.”  He leaned over the bed and roared, “DO YOU HEAR ME?” 

But there was no response, and he took up the pacing again.  “Both of us born to be kings,” he sneered. “I to be your puppet.  And what of Thor?  So utterly unprepared.  So arrogant.  So willing to throw away lives in pursuit of glory.  How could you not have known?”  He paced.  “Sorry to disappoint, _father_.  But unless you wake, your golden son will never be king, and then your Jötunn cuckoo will be on the throne of Asgard.  And do you know why?  Because your favored son will be DEAD.” 

He laughed, a jagged, bitter thing, the sound catching in his throat and cutting like glass.  “Thor now understands peace, only too well.  And even that is not worthy enough for you.  What else could he do to prove his worth?  Or did you want him to go fight in some worthless Midgardian battle?  Midgardians slaughter each other in droves.  There are plenty of opportunities for pointless death in the pursuit of what you call valor and glory.  Does it surprise you he has not availed himself of them?  It certainly surprised me,” he added in a low mutter.    

He wanted to grab Odin through the forcefield, shake him until those old tired eyes opened and looked at him.  He wanted to scream.  He wanted to laugh.  He wanted to cry.  “What else is there for him to learn?  Did you intend for your son to die?  I think not.  How could that ever have been part of your plan?”  His laugh was like a jagged shard of glass.  “He was a fool, but you’re a bigger one.”

He paused again and leaned over the motionless figure.  “I will do Thor one better.  You wanted to avoid the horror of war?  The horror Thor would have led us all into?  I promise you, I will create peace.  I will be the king who saves lives, not wastes them.”  He leaned forward and whispered into Odin’s ear. “I’ll do it for us.  I’ll do it for all of us.”


	11. Chapter 11

_Asgard_

The vast throne room was nearly empty.  The Queen, clasping Gungnir, stood tall and regal next to the throne where Loki sat surveying the cavernous chamber.  A dozen Council members stood in two neat lines parallel to the front and rear walls, equally divided to the left and to the right of the central corridor before the throne.  Several hundred Einherjar were posted along the central aisle and near the throne itself, looking like a bare handful, dwarfed as they were by the vast expanse of a floor that could hold many thousands.

The Council members were studying his face, their words from recent council meetings echoing in his mind.  His honeyed words, his silver-tongued persuasions had overcome their shock at his suggestion of the use of such tactics.  Oh yes, there were carefully worded questions, but none were doubtful of his ability to do as he planned.  And all the while Frigga kept an imperious smile in the face of their assessing glances. 

“The King of Jotunheim,” a dark-skinned herald announced.  He was kin of Heimdall, equally imposing in his armor and height, now dwarfed by the man who entered.

Laufey proceeded forward in measured paces, followed by his retinue, all wearing bits of armor protecting their groins and not much else.  Loki saw the shimmer of magic around them, cold magic sealed to their icy skin, protecting them from the warmth of Asgard. 

Despite Laufey’s height, the ceiling lay many meters above his head, vast and cavernous and bright with gold and infiltrated with every protective rune known to seiðr.  The spells had been reinforced just this morning by his mother and himself.  Whatever dark magic the Jötnar might possess, they would not be able to use it here.

Laufey approached without hurry, dignity and confidence conveyed by his assured walk; his retinue, four abreast and 20 deep, in perfect step behind him.  Loki, seated on the throne, maintained a look of aloof hauteur as they came closer and closer yet. 

When Laufey reached the end of the aisle, standing in the center a short distance from the throne, the Asgardian counselors to his right and left turned directly toward them.  Laufey didn’t deign to look at them but kept his gaze fixed on the throne.  Behind him, the other Jötnar fell to one knee.

Laufey, however, as befitted a king, did not kneel.  From where he stood, Laufey barely had to look up to meet Loki’s gaze.  His ruby eyes were fixed intently on Loki’s face.  Loki could see the questions there, felt himself being assessed, his measure being taken.

From his height on the throne, he kept his expression calm, assured, controlled, superior, his face conveying nothing he did not want it to show.  His skin crawling, Loki looked down at his sire. 

 _Why did you do it?  Was I that useless you decided I deserved to die?_  He inclined his head ever so slightly, in the manner of one greeting one slightly lesser.  Perhaps Laufey understood the implication, for he returned the bow in exactly the same way.

Loki began, his voice smooth as honey, his features arranged in an open, reassuring smile. “We are here to settle finally the question of weregeld for those who were slain when the banished prince _visited_ your realm.”  Laufey scowled at the phrasing, and Loki noted that with pleasure. 

“Will you fulfill the terms of your proposal?”  Laufey’s voice was low, rumbling, hinting at ice moving over hidden stone.  Whatever else he might be feeling was impossible to discern.

“Will you fulfill yours?”  The question hung in the air.

“If you do as you say, then we relinquish all claims to Aesir lives.  However, there is one important question you have not addressed.”

“And that is?” Loki let a hint of boredom into his voice, while wondering if the subtlety was wasted on the Jötunn.

Laufey, impossibly, seemed to stand even taller.  “You would place the Casket in my hands?  Will you trust us with the power your father stole from us?”

 _My **father** ,_ he thought bitterly, but said nothing.  “In point of fact,” he drawled, “I do not and will not.”  Laufey stiffed, but before he had a chance to reply Loki went on, “I will wield the Casket myself.”

Laufey barked a harsh short sound, which Loki interpreted as a laugh.  His hands tightened on the arms of the throne, and it was all he could do to keep the rage from showing in his face.

“You?” Laufey said, not bothering to hide the doubt and disrespect in his voice.  Loki’s fingers itched for Gungnir, itched for any weapon at all, to slay this monster where he stood.  “No Aesir save Odin can use it,” Laufey said, his voice thick with disbelief.  “And he is not here.”

He saw his mother shoot him a sideways glance even as she kept the polite fiction of a smile on her face.  He seized hold of his incandescent rage and formed it for his use.  “I am a powerful mage and a shapeshifter,” he said, filling his voice with arrogance and swagger even as he stood up from the throne.   Seconds later, where he had stood a moment before, a monstrous black wolf raised its head and howled, the sound echoing through the near-empty chamber.

Everyone, Jötnar and Council alike, stepped back.  The beast paced a moment, fixing Laufey with its fierce gaze.

An illusion only, but none saw the deception.  It was pointless to waste that much seiðr on shapeshifting, a difficult art at best, when something simple would suffice.  Morphing it back into his own form, Loki laughed and settled back on the throne, his posture deliberately casual.  “It is a simple matter, King Laufey.  I will assume Jötunn form to use the Casket to repair your palace and your capital city.  And any third thing that you may need.   At your direction.  But at my discretion.  I will not, of course, be restoring any of your weaponry, or anything you might use against any other realm.  Should I find any active weapons I will, of course, destroy them.”  His lips stretched into a smile that came nowhere near his eyes.  “What say you?”

Laufey was watching him with those unsettling red eyes.  Then he inclined his head.  “Should you fail, your own life is forfeit.”

Loki waved a dismissive hand.  “That will not happen, I assure you.”

“I want your word that you will do exactly as you say.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.”

Loki huffed a brief laugh.  “You have my word that I will do as I have said.  I should say, however,” Laufey looked at him with hard eyes, “that I have bespelled the Casket so none other than myself may touch it.”

“You have not that power.”  Laufey’s voice was flat, but his eyes showed doubt, as well as calculation.

Loki shrugged.  “If you wish, you may test it.  I do warn you, however, the consequences are dire.”  He leaned forward again.  “These are my terms.  These are Asgard’s terms.  Say you now, do you accept them?”

He held Laufey’s gaze for a long minute.  The room hushed, as if everyone had forgotten how to breathe.  Then, finally, Laufey spoke.  “I accept them.”

“Then I request your oath as well:  That this is the conclusion of our negotiations.  That you will not seek further reparations.  That we will be at peace and you will not start war against Asgard or any of the other Nine.  What say you?”

“I swear my oath that should you do all you promise, then we will be satisfied at reparations paid, that Jotunheim and Asgard shall be at peace again; that Jotunheim will not wage war against any of the Nine.”  Laufey spoke each word in clear and measured tones, and Loki nodded once.

The tension in the room broke; it was as if everyone exhaled all at once.

Loki stood from the throne.  “So shall it be.”

*****

Later, after the formalities of the agreement were discussed; after a feast at which the Jötnar refused to eat; later, after the Heimdall activated the Bifrost and sent them home, with Loki scheduled to arrive there the following day, Frigga joined Loki on the balcony overlooking the city.  He turned as she approached, and though she tried to hide the fear the tightness beside her lips and eyes betrayed her feelings.

“Do you trust him?” she asked.

He displayed his teeth in a grin.  “Not in the least.”

She moved to put her hands on his shoulders, then enveloped him in embrace.  “Heimdall will watch, every minute.  Be careful.  At least take the Einherjar with you.”  She stepped back, but still clasped his hands in hers.

“More hostages for Laufey to claim?  I think not.  I am safer alone, than with others I need be concerned with.”  At her continued fear, he said, “You know I can leave there any time I like.”

“Faster than their weapons?”

“Yes,” he said confidently.  “They need me.  Laufey will not miss this opportunity, though he will be looking for any way to take advantage.  It’s what I would do.”

“How did you think of doing this thing?”

“It was something Thor said.” Loki felt, for a moment, he was back in the ruins of that Midgardian city, in an environment so barren it rivaled Jotunheim in that its heat and Jotunheim’s cold had created places where very little lived. 

“And what was that?” she asked after a moment passed without him elaborating on his words.

“He fights to save lives now,” Loki finally said.  “I never thought he’d see peace as something of value.  He certainly never listened to my counsel.”

“I have a feeling,” Frigga said, “he’ll do so in the future.”  She suddenly clasped him tight and he returned the embrace.  “Be careful,” she whispered into his ear, then stood back.

“I will,” he said, “But first there is something I must do on Midgard.”  They traded glances, but no further words were spoken.  They both knew everything had already been said. 


	12. Chapter 12

_Midgard, North America, 1980_

It was in Blake’s mailbox one day – a glossy brochure about tours of Norway.  He reached for it – and jumped at the electric shock as his fingers brushed against it and the metal of his mail box.  A moment later, bills and junk mail set aside, he was paging through the brochure, already imagining the pure mountain air and admiring the glorious vistas the photographer had captured.

Norway. 

He’d thought about going there before – one of his “to do’s” that he’d never gotten around to.  But why not now?  It would be a new challenge.  With regular hikes, his leg had regained most of its strength.  There had been incremental but measurable improvement over the course of many years.  With his Doctors Without Borders stint finished, and some very tempting offers to consider for his next position, he was taking time off. 

He hadn’t made specific plans.  He’d felt an unsettling restlessness recently; a feeling there was something he hadn’t done, something he needed to do – but with rational thought he knew he was exactly on the planned course of his life, his next goals in sight, achievements already behind him.  Why not take some time to travel, time just for himself?  Medical school, then setting up a practice which got busier by the day, then hospital work, then volunteer work.  He deserved a leisurely vacation before getting back into the intensity of a surgical unit.

Decided, he picked up the phone and made an appointment to see a travel agent.

*****

_Jotunheim_

Loki stood upon the highest parapet on Laufey’s palace and surveyed his work.   Despite his transformation into Jötunn form he had kept his Asgardian regalia.  He would not, ever, strip himself near naked and walk among them as if he were one of them.  He was an Asgardian Prince of the House of Odin; he wanted no doubts about that.

He had been in this form many weeks now, but it still brought a shuddering jolt to his heart at the sight of his skin when he awoke every day.  Sometimes it took every bit of determination he had to get up from his stone bed in a well-warded room in Laufey’s palace, with the rime of ice everywhere present on the walls, and cracking on the floor beneath his feet when he finally rose and prepared for the day.

The dim blue light everywhere now seemed natural to his eyes; he could see far better here now than he had when Thor had taken them to Jotunheim.  And that, too, he hated; hated every aspect that divorced himself from who he had thought he had been all his life.

But once he began his work each day he was able to set most of those thoughts aside.  He had not expected to enjoy the work as much as he had.  When he had first begun the process of rebuilding Laufey’s palace it had been a matter of planning and logistics.  He had taken it slowly at first, mastering the power of the Casket as he went.  It had been far easier than he had anticipated; he had expected it initially to be as difficult as breaking in a Vanir horse, the power wild and untamed and needing a firm hand to be put to use.

It did need a firm hand.  But the Casket responded to his touch as if being gentled by a lover.  His satisfaction over his ability to control the Casket almost negated the anger he still felt from Laufey’s initial comment after his palace had been restored to his former glory.  Laufey had trained his unsettling ruby gaze on Loki’s eyes and observed, “The Allfather could not have done better.  It responds to you as one born to this power.”

“You know my power.  All the Realms do.  I have been handling objects such as this for centuries,” Loki had responded coolly, his heart hammering, anger and fear that somehow Laufey had guessed his secret. 

Laufey’s expression was unreadable.  He’d finally given Loki a bland smile.  “Yes, you are renowned as foremost among Asgard’s seiðmenn.”

Laufey had made no further comments after that, but directed Jotunheim’s foremost builders and artisans to give him all assistance as needed, to rebuild the capital city.

And then he had begun. 

*****

Jotunheim’s sky was filled with thousands of stars even in daylight, its dim and distant sun only the largest among many.  Loki stood in the center of a vast plaza surrounded by the rubble of the remains of ancient buildings.  Laufey’s chief architect, a massive Jötunn woman named Skadi, had joined him.  Taciturn upon their first meeting, now weeks into their association, she had proven to be garrulous about her work.  She was at least twice his age if not older, judging from her intricately detailed descriptions of how the city had looked like before the war.

He hadn’t known what to expect from Jötnar women, but now that he’d seen several he was beginning to recognize individuals.  As tall as the men, their bodies were devoid of any sexual signifier save a slight dipping in at the waist and flaring out at the hips.  Most of them wore nothing but brief grey leather skirts, though some also wore different types of jewelry, mostly gold torques and bracelets.  Every one of them had long black hair, mostly caught up high atop their heads then left to fall in long straight tails bound here and there by tight golden rings.

The very first day they’d met, after their introduction and Laufey’s departure she’d given him a curious, calculating look, then reached out to tug on his hair.  “Why do Asgardian men keep their hair?” she demanded in a rumbling voice as deep as Laufey’s.  “It is so unmanly.”

How dare she touch him?  Offended by her presumption, he managed to stay polite. “I did not know Jötnar even had hair until I met your women.” 

She snorted at his ignorance.  “When a boy is old enough he goes to the Temple to become a man, and there he has all of his hair chemically removed.  I hear it is quite painful.  A test of their manhood.  Do you have such tests?” she asked with frank curiosity.

“Oh, Aesir men are always eager to prove their manhood,” he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice.  He took a bemused moment to wonder why the length, shortness, or absence of hair should signify different things about manhood in three different realms. 

Skadi stared at him for a moment then broke out into a grin, displaying alarmingly sharp teeth.  She uttered a low rumbling sound, which he took to be a laugh.  There was a gleam of good humor in her eyes.  “Well, shall we get to building then?” 

The next days were filled with studying everything she gave him, from the plans of the capital city as it had been before, to samples of the various materials used in the different types of structures.  He initially approached the chore as an unpleasant but necessary task.  The ruined city reminded him strongly of Thor’s desert city, of Beirut, broken apart by Midgardian warfare where Thor even now was waging his own war to save the lives of strangers.  The buildings here were far taller, but the rubble of destroyed dwellings and shops among those half standing, with a very few remaining whole was the same as in that desert city. 

When he first brought out the Casket to begin the actual work Skadi’s mouth had dropped open in awe.  And there – he’d now begun to interpret emotion on Jötnar faces – he saw both pain, then grief, then a burgeoning hope.

She was full of information about the placement and purpose of each building, almost giddy with enthusiasm as he went to work.  Handling the Casket now was near to intoxication.  Its power thrilled through his nerves, its magic sang through his veins and with each day that passed, the more he used it the stronger he felt.  His hands were rock-steady as he directed its course.  Just touching the Casket connected him more deeply to his magick, the seiðr that was uniquely his.  Using it, he was learning so much about his own power, now fully unleashed for the first time.

“Ah, little Aesir,” Skadi said one day.  “You wield the Casket as if one born to it.  Our city rises every day, and I see the day soon when it will have reached its former glory.”

They began discussing the progress of their work, something in him responding warmly to the approval in her voice.  He took pleasure in her description of him as Aesir, that feeling overlaying the disturbing implication of the words, “born to it.” 

He had difficulty keeping worries about Thor out of his head, even though he knew Heimdall would notify him immediately if Thor needed his aid.  So he had persevered, and the city had begun rising out of its ruins. 

Skadi was always there, advising and correcting as he went, as one building after another shot up to the sky.  Many others were there was well; the other builders and artisans had been joined by many Jötnar who watched him as he did his work.  It was unsettling to see so many men, women and children watching his work with fascination and suspicion.  And every time he brought out the Casket there was naked hope on their faces.

The city was half rebuilt the day he came to the plaza and found, parked in the middle of the vast square, a huge sleek-lined metal sleigh, its sides decorated with images of beasts of the type that had attacked them when they’d been on Jotunheim before. 

Skadi, standing by it, offered him a big smile, then stepped inside, beckoning for him to follow.  It was way too high for him to climb into without help, so, without thinking, he called up ice to raise him to its level, and was pleased by the surprised look on her face that he was able to use this skill.

“Shall we look at your work?” she said and placed her hands on the controls.

Like Asgardian skiffs, the sleigh moved under its own power.  Her lips widened with delight as it lifted into the air.  She held it on a slow and steady course, circling around the completed buildings and those still in progress, then sent it higher until they were hovering over the city, high enough that he could see the entire plan of it, and the outlines and ruins of the buildings he had yet to work on.

Settling the sleigh back down in the plaza, she hopped out, and before he could summon the ice to follow she lifted him up and set him gently down on the stone paving.

Disconcerted and a little angry, he was about to object to being treated like a child, but the look on her face, the shining joy in her eyes gave him pause.

She rested a proprietary hand on the sleigh.  “This hasn’t worked since the War when your father stole all our power.”

 _Not my father,_ he thought, but those words couldn’t pass his lips, not here, not anywhere, no longer even to his mother.  But he took great pleasure in the knowledge that he was rebuilding what the Allfather and his warriors had destroyed nearly 1,000 years ago.  However, as a precaution, he had made sure to hide spells in each structure, spells visible to him alone, spells that would respond to him alone.  Should the Jötnar attack again, all he would have to do was breathe one word and they would all collapse into their separate stones.

The day came when the work was complete.  It had taken a considerable amount of time, but now the city rose up in its sky-high granite and ice splendor, and the streets were full of people slapping their hands against their thighs in joy and looking at him with thanks.  He responded as an Aesir would, by spreading out his arms as a king would to his subjects.  _I have given you back what your own King left open to destruction when he went to war._   Odin’s words came back to him:  _What you do as King will matter in the lives of your subjects, for good or ill._ These people would never be his subjects.  But at some point in time, he realized, he had stopped viewing them as monsters.  Now, he took pleasure in their thanks.

Skadi had brought out her sleigh again, and when she gestured, he rose on the ice and joined her inside, the people below stretching out their arms to them.  Loki noticed that, on the palace parapet high above Laufey stood watching them, unmoving; from this distance his expression unreadable. 

Skadi’s hands were sure on the tiller as the sleigh zoomed through the air, darting around the city.  Loki, standing beside her, held on tightly as, with a distinct look of glee on the hard planes of her face, she dipped and swooped and soared the sleigh around the completed towers and lower buildings alike.  Shouting aloud with manic joy, she drove the vehicle so close that he could have reached out to touch the varied surfaces of the exterior walls, then with one final gesture she sent them soaring up into the sky then out, past the borders of the city into the icy, chasm-ridden plain beyond.  Diving down, she flew in a long descending arrow of movement until with barely a jolt the vehicle touched packed snow and skimmed along the surface until finally, so far from the city that it was barely visible on the horizon, she brought the vehicle to a stop. 

With a low rumbled sound Loki had come to interpret as meaning pleased satisfaction she released her hold on the tiller and turned to face him, eyes alive with curiosity as she studied his face.  He kept his expression studiedly neutral, suspecting she intended to discover if she’d alarmed him by the risks she’d taken.

A few soft flakes of snow were falling around them, settling on his hair and shoulders, and not melting.

“You do not feel the cold,” she observed, and there was a glint of something dangerous in her ruby eyes. 

“Of course not.” He put princely aloofness in his voice.  Her expression hardened.

Quick as a snake, her hand coated with small sharp icicles, she grabbed his arm.

He flinched and pulled against her hard grip.  Her ice shattered and broke against his vambrace, the shards falling harmlessly to the ground below.  His mouth dropped open in alarm as he met her surprisingly calm gaze, that long-ago revelation of who he was now vivid in his mind.

She opened her fingers, and he jerked his arm back. She gave him a sharp-toothed grin.  “Still Aesir,” she rumbled, “fearing our touch.  But look, see.  Nothing has changed.”

He’d known it, of course; his armor, suited by his magic to his new body, was no more affected by the cold than he was.  He was suddenly angry he had reacted without thought, but that thought vanished when she bent down and brought her massive face so close to his it obscured his vision of all else.  “My son,” she said, “called your brother a princess.”

Heart jolting, Loki sucked in a breath and curled his fingers, seiðr sparking, his body instinctively assuming an offensive stance.  He’d been a fool to let his guard down, a fool to let himself feel safe in her presence.  Now he was prepared for any aggressive act.

She straightened and stepped back.  She studied him and hummed.  “Seiðr is strong in you.  I feel it.  I have some small measure of it myself.” She trailed her fingers up in the air and tiny witchlights sparkled in their wake.  “But you…”  Her gaze swept him head to foot, her ruby-tinted eyes gleaming in the low light.  “I have not seen such power in many centuries.”

“Your son should not have died.  It should never have happened.”  But he remembered putting low words of poison into Thor’s ears after the guards had been killed in the Vault, goading him, and Thor reacting exactly as planned.  But if that guard he’d alerted had warned Odin in time that Thor was leading them to Jotunheim none of this would have happened.

No.  None of this was his fault. 

Oh yes.  It was.  Something knotted in his gut.

“You are a strange one for an Aesir.  Where are your bellicose threats?  Your bleatings about honor?”  Skadi hummed again.  “Not that our men are devoid of such faults.  Your brother killed my son for a childish insult my son should not have made.  My son was a fool.  Your brother is a fool AND a murderer.”  She paused, but he did not relax his posture.  “All know of what you said when your _brother_ ,” she made the word into a curse, “chose to react like a child, not a man.  All know you gave good counsel and tried to dissuade him from his rash actions and showed proper respect to our King.”  She fixed him with an unreadable stare.  “You have done much to erase your brother’s crimes.  Your father’s crimes.  But be careful about giving us hope.  We might believe it, and then, if betrayal comes…  Hope is a knife that can turn in your hand.”

“I will keep my word.  War is a waste,” he said.  “There are so many other more interesting things to do.”

“You will keep your word.  But you are not King.”  She bent her head down again, but her eyes held no threat, her face no readable expression.  “But I think you might be.”

Then she smiled and suddenly clapped his back, the way he’d seen other Jötnar do with each other when they appeared to be companions, friends.

She gestured at the distant city skyline, the tops of the buildings tall and proud and beautiful in the dim daylight.  “Thank you,” she said.  “I had thought all of your people monsters.  I see I was wrong.” 

“Perhaps,” he said, “We should all stop listening to children’s stories.”

“Perhaps we should.  Shall we return?” She indicated the sleigh.

“Yes,” he said.  “But since we’re out here…”  He abruptly rose on a pillar of ice, the tallest he’d ever made and, ignoring the sleigh, went racing off on that pillar as he magicked it to slide freely across the intervening ice.

With a whoop of joy, she followed in the sleigh, catching up to keep pace with him, and neck and neck they returned to the city’s boundary where a huge crowd met them, roaring their approval.  Loki found himself smiling as he stepped forward, held out his arms, and accepted their accolades, and something sharp and barbed inside him loosened its hold.

*****

Now two tasks were finished.  The buildings of Jotunheim’s capital city were restored, their sharp, tall, unbroken lines reaching high into the sky, dark stone in the night, glittering with mica and quartz during the brief hours that were Jotunheim’s day.  Laufey’s palace soared above all, and Loki had made sure to explore by seiðr all of its hidden subterranean chambers.

He had, of course, destroyed every weapon he had found.  That is, every one the Jötnar had allowed him to find.  He knew where all the rest lay.  Better yet, he knew undetectable spells that neutralized them, and their possessors would not know of this unless they attempted to use them for attack.  Then they would know for a brief split second their error before they died.  As soon as he got the chance he’d be back, undetectable, and would examine each one at his leisure.

Laufey then asked for the final boon.  “Your father _,_ ” he said, “by stealing the Casket stole the life from our Realm.  Every year, its absence means life slowly drains from the land.  Every year our Realm grows ever colder until everything we and our beasts feed upon grows ever more dormant.  More and more die each year.”  Laufey had been watching him closely, but now his gaze went less focused.  “Every century fewer children are born, and many of those are born too soon to live, or are born defective, with missing limbs, or some inner cause which leaves them too weak to live.”

_He’d imagined it a thousand times – himself as a baby, abandoned on a frozen rock, lost and alone and inconsolable.  Unloved.  Unwanted._

His stomach twisting in nausea, he did not ask what had happened to the defective babies who hadn’t conveniently died.   He barely heard Laufey’s final words, said in a tone of unspeakable sorrow.  “And not enough food to give to all of the living.”

Something of his turmoil of emotion communicated itself to Laufey, who gave him first a sharp gaze, then a discerning one.

His tongue thick with emotion, Loki said, “What then is your request?”

“Whether with your Casket or your own seiðr or both,” Laufey said, “I ask you to halt the loss of energy.  Either by returning the Casket – ”

Loki smirked, and surprisingly, Laufey smiled.  “I thought not.  But, as clever and powerful as you are – “ Loki nearly snorted at the transparent and patently insincere flattery even as he enjoyed being in a position of power to be so courted – “you could surely find some way to halt the loss of energy.”

“I shall consider your request,” he said.

*****

The day came when he awoke, and looked at his hands without surprise or loathing.  He stretched out his fingers, curled them shut, stretched them out again, looking at the shades of blue, the beginnings of the traceries of the lines.  He used one fingertip to follow one of the lines.  It now felt part of him, his skin felt part of him, and he wondered if this was what it was like to feel whole.

Invisible, he slipped out of the city and walked for miles until he’d reached an area close to where Skadi had brought him weeks before.  The city itself was barely visible on the horizon.

As he walked snow fell on him, all around him, sometimes so thickly he could barely see ahead.  But he did not need to see.  Each flake that touched his face and hands was like a caress, each step he took quieted his mind and he allowed his thoughts to drop away, his perception to widen, the frozen power of this land freely, easily entering his body, until he felt one with the realm entire. The Casket, its heart, sang to him of his power.  Jotunheim’s power.  His birthright. 

He flew back to Laufey’s palace on winterbird wings, free in the chilled air as he had never been before, and when he had landed, the Casket whispered to him of home.

*****

When he told Laufey the work to give back a power source to Jotunheim had been completed,  Laufey did not question him, because it was already obvious to everyone that something had changed when long-dormant equipment in many areas came back to life.  Loki did not comment on the weapons array they had been creating, nor did he mention that he had repurposed the array to function as a lower level power source, enough to sustain them, not enough to restore them.  They would have to figure out how to do that for themselves. 

Now that the final work was done it was time to take his leave.  He turned at the sound of another’s approach.  It was Laufey, alone for once, no guards or courtiers, or, any his own kin accompanying him.   Early in the days after he had learned the truth about himself, once he was able to bear speaking about it, he had asked his mother if he had any Jötnar kin.   She had told him she knew he had two blood brothers and as far as she knew both they and his dam had survived the war.  Thankfully, Laufey never even offered to introduce him to any members of the royal family.

“I believe we are done here.”  He looked up into Laufey’s face, his sire looming over him.

“Are we now?” Laufey said.

Irritation and anger at the denial filled him.  “I have done all that was required to fulfill our bargain.  Do you think you would have gotten better from the Allfather?”

Laufey grunted what could have been a laugh.  Some kind of suspicion, of knowledge, flickered in the back of his demonic eyes.

“We have peace now.  If you should break it, the consequences be upon you.”  Loki gave Laufey a challenging stare.

Laufey was studying his face very carefully.  “We have peace now,” he wondered.  “But I have one final question:  Do you mock me by taking my lines?”

Loki froze for an instant too long, shock like electricity racing through his veins.  He cursed himself for his blindness.  He had observed the patterns differed on the Jötnar, but had not given thought to any possible meaning. 

Laufey’s eyes had narrowed.  He gave him a sharp twist of a smile.  “When I transform I need a pattern to follow.  Surely you did not expect me to take upon the appearance of a commoner?”  He could hear the brittle edge in his voice and swallowed to keep himself from saying anything more.

Laufey didn’t answer immediately.  Unsettled, his heart racing, Loki gave him a falsely courteous smile and added, “A wise king knows when insult is intended and when it is not.”

Laufey gave him a long measuring look, and finally replied, “Shall we both then call ourselves wise kings?”

“Then all of Asgard looks forward to many long years of peace,” Loki replied.

“But you are not king yet,” Laufey observed.  “Odin may yet awake.”

“Was he not the one who desired peace?  Were you not of the same mind?” 

Laufey rumbled an assent.  “We have all had enough of war.  Asgard’s weregeld is paid in full.  I declare us at peace.”

“I will take my leave then,” Loki said, already drawing up the necessary power to transport him back to Asgard without benefit of the Bifrost.

“And if your brother should ever return…”

Loki, already prepared to make the jump, paused.

“He is welcome to come apologize.  In person.  If he has enough courage to do so.  And mean it.”

“There is no point of speaking of things that may not happen,” Loki said, and vanished to Asgard without another word.

*****

_Asgard_

The _hnefatafl_ board lay between them.  The game finished, the King safe, his enemies defeated.  Loki had won.

“You left Thor a gift before you went to Jotunheim,” she observed.  “And he has accepted it.”

“I know,” he said, for he had looked from the throne and seen Blake in an enclosed Midgardian airship on his journey to Norway. 

“He looks so much older, many centuries older than he was when he was banished.  Have you a plan?”  There was no denying the fear, the looming grief on her face.

“I do,” he said.  They both knew what lay concealed in a high mountain valley in that Midgardian kingdom.  Useless knowledge, he had thought, but he had recently realized what part that secret would play in his plan.  “I will depart on the morrow.”

Yet he lingered, sipped his wine.  He idly picked up the king piece and played with it, rolling it between his fingers.

“You were courageous to go to Jotunheim.  I know how difficult it must have been for you.”  He moved his shoulders slightly in a childish shrug, feeling utterly weary.  “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

“I had not realized,” he finally said, “that the lines scarring Jötunn skin signified anything.”

Her eyes widened.  “Neither had I.  What do they mean?”

“They signify ancestry.”  She straightened, shock on her face.  He huffed a laugh.  “Laufey believes I chose his markings to mock him.  But I saw others looking at me with strange expressions.  What if they guess the truth?  What if they speak of this?  What if everyone learns I am not… one of you.”

She laid a hand on his hand, the one still holding the king piece.  She squeezed it gently.  “Then we will deny it.  You are Prince Loki of Asgard.  Nothing changes that.  No one will believe such a lie.”  At his disbelieving expression her voice went lower.  “Who would ever believe them over us?  It is our secret alone.  It will remain so.  You are nothing like them.”

“Ah, but mother, I saw them,” he said.  “The people, the artisans, the women, the children.  Going about their lives.  I had some interesting discussions with their builders.  They have strange ways, like the mortals.  But they are not the monsters I had been told they were.  I had thoughts and dreams while there.  What if I had been raised there?  In that broken realm, where all scrabble for scraps?”

“The Norns chose a different fate for you.”

“You mean the Allfather did.”  He set the king piece back down on the board.  She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke too quickly.  “Mother,” he said.  “I learned something on Jotunheim.”  And told her about the defective children.  “He said there wasn’t enough food, even for the living.  He did not say, but I assume,” he said, “they leave these children to die.  Though he did not say so in words, what else would they have done, if he would so treat his own son?”

She was still for a moment.  “All those children…” she murmured, and he saw a mother’s grief on her face.  Her jaw tightened.  “My husband left them no choice.  I wonder if he knew?  If he ever cared to look to see what consequences we caused.”

“They started the war.”

“We did not need to continue to punish them for the next thousand years.”  She lifted her chin.  “But that cannot apply to you.  They still possessed the Casket when you were born.  Their Realm still had its power.  And you are a King’s son.  Not a peasant, left to starve in hard times − ” She stopped abruptly.

“No.  Just unwanted, left to die.  Defective.”  At his bitter words, she choked off a pained sound.

He selected a fallen _hnefatafl_ piece, one of the King’s defenders, held it for a moment, then set it upright, as if about to commence a new game.  “Mother,” he said, still looking at the gameboard.  “I wish to tell you something.”

“Go on,” she said, when he remained silent a moment longer.  He hesitated to meet her eyes, then had the courage to look directly into them.

“It was I who let the Jötnar into the Vault.” He felt his face color, but did not drop his gaze.

She waited for a long moment, as if expecting an explanation or excuse, but he said nothing more, though many words crowded behind his teeth.  She gave him a gentle smile.  “Do you think I do not know?  I guessed the truth, long ago.”  She held his gaze for a long moment.  “Envy is a hard thing, but so is petty rage and foolhardiness.  You made your choice, and it was a poor one.  Thor made his choice, and it was a poor one.  You did not need to set the trap.  He did not need to step into it.  I can blame you both, but that is past.  I forgive you both.”  She paused, searching his gaze.    “I want you to think on how to pay weregeld to the families of the slain guards.” 

“You surely don’t expect me to confess.”  He gave her a challenging stare.

“Of course not.”  She waved off his comment with one hand.  “You cannot reveal your involvement.  But the House of Odin has always kept many secrets.  This is just one more.  Now please, my son, if you know of a way to break your father’s spell, bring your brother home.”

Odd, he thought later, as he made his preparations to leave.  He hadn’t even thought to deny her choice of the word _father._


	13. Chapter 13

_Midgard, Norway, 1980_

There he was.  Hiking up the mountain, still using his cane, but stronger still. 

It had been the wink of an eye since Loki had last seen him.  Blake looked no older the same as he had the last time Loki had seen him, but he appeared more rested.  Blake had paused several times to appreciate the view, occasionally bringing out the device that captured images.  But his attention always turned back to the northeast, though the path did not, now, turn in that direction. 

Loki, seated upon an outcropping, watched him approach along the well-worn pathway.  He made no effort to go out and meet him.  Instead, he waited.  Would Thor follow the path laid before him?  If this did not work, if Blake turned back, he would die a mortal a mere few decades or less hence.

He had left Asgard in better condition than it had been in for awhile.  Since peace in Jotunheim had been achieved without the loss of any Asgardian lives and with people now apparently eager to bring their affairs to his judgment – tedious though that could be – the public mood was much improved.  It had been a long time since anyone had questioned Frigga’s decision to allow him the final say in all matters of state – and even in the taverns, when he’d gone there in disguise, more and more people seemed to be in favor of installing him as King.  Opinion now was inclined to believe that Odin would never awake and Thor would never return.  Most surprising at all, several young men of good family had made application to the völur to study seiðr under their tutelage and though that had created a minor scandal, it passed away quickly.

He was King now, in all but name.

Odin still lay asleep.  Loki had tried his best and failed; his most effective spell was no match for the spell Odin had cast upon Thor.  It was time for Loki to intervene directly.  Thor must prove his worthiness to the satisfaction of Odin’s spell.  And yet Odin had set him a hopeless task.  His actual son was now as ergi as Loki, but far more worthy, in Loki’s view, than the arrogant boy he had been before the aborted coronation.

Loki was tired of Odin’s game.  Tired of watching Blake age by the day, on his rush toward mortal death.  If they must play this by Asgard’s rules, so be it.

And if Thor wanted to claim the kingship…  Well, he was getting bored anyway, and that would be an interesting challenge.

“I will have my brother back,” he said to the wind, and prepared to cast a glamour.

*****

Something was drawing him on.  He’d stopped enjoying the day for what it was – the spectacular scenery, the glorious mountain air, the feeling of accomplishment that he, Donald Blake, was walking further than he ever had on his hikes in the Catskills.

The air had changed somehow – cooler, more clear, as if the light itself made everything – the tracery of plants clinging to stone, the veins in leaves, the patterns in bark – hypervisual.  He rounded one corner in the trail.  Another.  He hadn’t seen anyone either before or behind in a good half hour, but he never considered turning back.  He could almost hear it, a low level hum, a song sung just below the range of his hearing.  Calling to him.

He kept walking, filled with an unexplainable eagerness.  There was something he wanted – something he _needed_ – just ahead.

The valley was like a scooped out bowl, trees mounded around the base of cliffs, one cliff wall bare, with an enticing cave mouth ahead.

But he wasn’t alone.  Several yards ahead of him, a dark-haired man, dressed in black and green, was approaching that cave.  Something about the set of his shoulders was very familiar.

“Hallo!” Blake shouted, in the way he’d heard that greeting pronounced here.  “Hallo!”

The man turned as he approached.  Blake caught sight of a pale face, intense eyes looking at him inquiringly. 

With a sudden start of recognition, Blake stepped forward eagerly.  “Hi!” he shouted.  “Where have you been?  Where – ”

But the recognition faded, and he stopped within a few feet of the other man, who was still watching him intently.

“Thor,” the other man said, like an incantation, and Blake looked at him quizzically.

“I thought I recognized you – I guess I was wrong.”

“We’ve met before.”  There was an inexpressible sorrow in the other man’s voice, tinged with unexpected anger.  “Come with me,” he ordered and then stepped into the cave.

Despite himself, Blake moved forward by instinct, using his cane to pick his way over the rocky ground by the cave mouth.  He went inside quickly and paused.  There was light ahead, and now he could see the cave was only a tunnel a few short twisting uneven feet long, and daylight lay beyond.

Silhouetted against that daylight was the man he’d followed.  The outline of his clothing was strange, nothing like the plain hiking gear he had been wearing in the valley outside.  He had turned to face Blake, and though his face should have been hard to see in the dim light, it was somehow illuminated by a dim green glow.  Intent eyes were watching him, and as he took another hesitant step forward the man’s lips curved in a pleased smile.  “You’re looking for something,” he said in a voice achingly familiar and utterly unplaceable.  “I have it for you.  Just ahead.”

He turned and walked out into the brightness.  Blake followed, without question, but halted under the lip of the cave. 

What lay beyond was just another valley, a small meadow narrowing abruptly into a winding ravine thick with trees and undergrowth.  The stranger, who he could now see was clad in an odd leather outfit, did not hesitate, but walked down into the ravine.

Blake was struck with a sense of déjà vu, as if he’d been here, as if this had all happened before.  Without question, he followed, relying on his cane to navigate over the uneven ground.  The figure ahead of him was pulling ahead, and he felt a sudden sense of alarm.  He hurried as best he could, relieved when the ravine widened into a flatter expanse of land populated with widely spaced evergreens.  It was bounded on one side by a huge granite boulder which at this angle resembled the head of a raptor.

The stranger was walking directly toward that forest, and the way he moved was so familiar for an instant he almost had his name on the tip of his tongue.  Luke.  Something like that.  Had he met in Beirut?  Or was it New York?  He had a flash impression of a bar, and then suddenly a meadow in the Catskills – and then his old office.  Had he been a patient there?  No, he was too young.

The stranger came to a dead halt, staring down at something on the ground.  Blake drew even with him and looked down, but all he saw was a large, oddly shaped rock, a thick round cylinder of stone with a shorter piece protruding from one side.  He looked at the stranger questioningly.  Intent green eyes looked back. “You’ve been looking for this, I believe.”

“I don’t think so,” Blake said, looking at it again, but there it was, that beckoning hum, stronger than ever, seemingly centered around this odd stone.  “Who are you anyway?”

There was a sudden crashing sound.  Blake looked wildly around to determine the source – and - what the hell was **_that?_**

A massive creature, well over a story high, charged through the trees, kicking up great clods of earth, slavering jaws open, antlered head bowed to impale his flesh.

The stranger, the fool! stepped forward, not aside, right in its path, as the beast hurtled directly toward him, roaring in challenge.

He didn’t think.  He acted.  He ran forward – or tried too.  Stumbling over the oddly shaped stone, dazzled by a sudden bright glow, he recovered by instinct, pushing himself up to his feet.  His heart pounding, he grabbed for his fallen cane, which had gotten stuck in a crook of that odd rock.  His fingers closed around something else instead, something that felt like leather wrapped around something hard.  He sucked in a breath.  The creature was mere yards away, the stranger right in front of it, and there was no time!

A surge of fear and anger galvanized Blake.  This was – this was someone he knew – this was someone in great danger.  Blake shouted and hurled himself sideways, shoving the stranger out of the path of the beast.  Off balance, Blake fell directly in its path.  Looking up into the slavering jaws, fingers closing tight on the handle of whatever it was he held, he swung it hopelessly against the creature –

– which shimmered and vanished before his eyes.

A surge of electricity shot through him and he seized.  A thunderclap followed instantly, nearly drowned out by his roar of shock as memories flooded through him, a crushing wave that swamped him.  Heart pounding – faster faster – power surging through him, flashing in a bright jagged lightning aura around him – gasping for breath, sucking it in, exhaling rapidly, breathing like a bellows, his  body shaking helplessly in the face of the onslaught.  He rolled on the rough ground, trembling from head to toe, his fingers now wrapped as tight as rigor mortis around Mjolnir’s handle which shook and crackled in his grasp.

As electricity shot through every cell in his body flashes of a thousand fragmented memories filled his mind.  He couldn’t stop shaking.  Distantly he heard a voice calling to him.  But his eyes, tight shut, were filled with lightning flashes that finally, some untold time later, receded to black.

There were arms around him holding tight.

There was a familiar voice, close, insistent, urgent. 

“Thor! Thor!  Blake! Donald!  THOR!”

He sucked in a deep breath and opened his eyes, staring straight into Loki’s eyes inches from his face.  “Brother.”  His voice was ragged, broken, and he felt Loki’s arms tighten around his waist.  He realized he was curled up on the ground, Loki lying next to him, their faces almost touching.  Were there tears on Loki’s face?

He was still shaking wildly and his mind, overwhelmed, went blank again.  After another long gap he became aware that his brother was speaking to him in a soothing tone, almost a wordless croon, assuring him everything was all right, that he would be fine now; that everything was fine.

He realized after some time that his face was wet with tears.  He reached to roughly wipe them away with one hand, the other still clutching tight to Mjolnir, and then looked through the blur of tear-clogged lashes into Loki’s face.

His brother was staring at him, a mixture of concern and surprise and consideration crossing his face.

Thor sat, and glanced wildly around him, his face alive with surprise and confusion and pleading.  “You – Loki – what?” He was startled to realize he was naked, the tatters of his clothing lying around him.

“What do you remember?” Loki asked, sitting up as well.

“Coming here – I was walking up the mountainside – thinking about how beautiful everything was.  But I felt something calling to me – and then I saw you.”

“Then you saw me.” 

Another tremor seized his body and he pressed both hands to his head.  “I was – Father banished me!  Made me – “  He stared at Loki, wide-eyed.  “Made me mortal.  I have lived a life here – a whole life.”

“Not a whole one,” Loki said drily, “But close.”

“He took my memories!  How did the spell break?”

“You proved yourself worthy.” 

Thor’s face crumpled.  “Worthy?  After all – “  He stopped, swallowed, shook his head violently. “What did I do that was worthy?”

“You saved me from the bilgesnipe,” Loki said with a tinge of irony.

“It was an illusion – not real.”

Loki’s gaze darkened.  “Your actions were real.  It's what is in your heart that counts.  Your actions made you worthy.”

“What is worth?”  He looked around wildly.  “What of Father?  Is he here?”

“Still sleeping, for many years longer than he ever has.  It is thought he may never awaken.  I have been trying to break his spell for years.  I should have known it would be something this simple.”  Loki burst out laughing.

Thor, still in shock, struggling to understand what he had just heard, watched as Loki, still laughing, fell onto his back on the grass.  Staring up at the sky, Loki shouted, “Father! Such a simple-minded solution!  And to think I gave you credit for some imagination.  I should have guessed a long time ago.  You – ” his words still punctuated with barks of laughter, he rolled onto his side and grabbed Thor’s hand, pulling until Thor lay down on the grass with him – “have been worthy for years.  Didn’t Father want you to understand the horrors of war?  What better way to understand them than the way you do now?”  Loki was holding his sides now, still chortling.  He finally fell still and stared into Thor’s eyes.

“Wh-where are we?” Thor asked, sitting up and looking around.  “I know this place.  We’re in the mountains behind the palace.  We played here – so many times.  You’ve brought us home.”

“Actually,” Loki said, sitting up, “I have not.  We’re still on Midgard, in a cave in Norway.”

Thor watched as his brother made a complicated gesture with his hands.  The illusion fell away and he found they were seated on the floor of a vast cavern, illuminated only by Loki’s witchlights.

The flickering lights cast weird shadows on Loki’s face.  He grinned.  “The Allfather, in his infinite wisdom, chose to hide Mjolnir here, half the realm away from where he deposited you.  Perhaps to make it even more difficult for you to retrieve it?”  He laughed again.  “Your beloved father.”

Thor, not understanding Loki’s last words or his bitter tone, stared down at his hammer.  His fingers were still wrapped around the handle.  He tried to unwrap his fingers, but Mjolnir’s power thrummed.  He could feel it, something to cling to, something to hold on to, and he felt if he let go he’d lose all connection with reality and never regain it. 

He looked back at Loki.  His memories were starting to arrange themselves in some kind of order.  Image after image floated through his mind.  A stranger in Beirut.  The mysterious appearance of medical supplies.  Further back.  New York City.  A stranger in a bar.  A hotel room –

“You’ve come back to me – over and over again. You – ” He frowned as more and more memories poured in.  He stopped speaking, not noticing at first the wary expression that had appeared on Loki’s face.


	14. Chapter 14

_“You’ve come back to me – over and over again. You – “_ Thor had said before he stopped speaking, brows knitted in confusion.

“Yes,” Loki said, still giddy, elated with his success.  Blake’s smaller, shorter form had transformed into Thor’s powerful physique, the clothing he had been wearing lying in rags around him.  His massive muscles, his long hair, his beard, even – Loki made sure to look – his intact penis now free of Midgardian mutilation - all were exactly as they had been on the day of his coronation.

Loki was grinning, but his feeling of delighted accomplishment at his success abruptly drained away into caution as he suddenly realized only too well what he had done.

Thor remembered.  And he would remember **everything**.

He stood up, waiting for the outburst of fury that would surely come with the restoration of Thor’s memories.

Thor was staring up at him, but he didn’t seem to see him.  “Sif, and Volstagg, Hogun and Fandral – they all came too – but only once.”  He got to his feet as well, seemingly unaware of his nudity.

“…Yes,” Loki said, pleased that Thor hadn’t immediately start shouting in anger and swinging his hammer.  The words unspoken shivered between them.  _They pitied you._ “You’ve never remembered anyone. It was Odin’s spell.  Should you ever encounter any of us, even if you started to remember you would forget again almost immediately, sometimes in the second you turned away.”

Thor swallowed, and Loki could see realization cross his face.  He waited, holding himself still, wondering if he’d be able to talk Thor out of killing him once he fully understood what Loki had done to him. 

Or maybe he should just flee.  Right now.  Mjolnir was dangling from one of Thor’s huge hands, his powerful fingers white-knuckled in their grasp around the handle.  Loki could feel the strong surge of magick in the hammer, a buildup of power already charging, and he retreated a half step.

“But you came back,” Thor said.  His eyes still looked stunned, tears still clinging to his lashes, and his voice held no anger.  Yet.  “Over and over again.”  His eyes widened.  “Thank you for watching over me, brother.”

A flood of relief filled him.  _Is that what you think I was doing?_ he thought, but did not say.  Maybe Thor hadn’t remembered, after all.  He could only hope.  Better to let Thor believe he had been watching over him out of concern and love than guess at the tangled mess of anger and resentment and envy and jealousy that had ruled his emotions for so very long.  And with that thought came an equally powerful feeling of joy.  Thor was back.  He was alive.  All the work he and mother had put in over the years, and now he had succeeded.  He had his brother back.  He found he was smiling foolishly at Thor, the disappearance of the worry and fear that had ruled his mind for so long was overwhelming.  Thor was safe, he told himself again.  He would not die.  He imagined Heimdall even now was telling Mother the good news.

Thor’s brows contracted in concentration. “I felt it – the spell you used to try to get me to remember – you kept trying.”

“It didn’t work,” Loki said angrily.  “Nothing did.  Mother and I tried every spell, spoke with every s _eiðrmaur_ in Vanaheim and Alfheim, read every ancient book – nothing worked.  The Allfather left no clue and has not woken.”

“Father,” Thor breathed, not noticing Loki’s use of Odin’s formal title.  “He – what he said – I deserved it.  I deserved it all.”  Thor squeezed his eyes shut, brow furrowing.  “Jotunheim,” he breathed, mouth twisting with revulsion, and Loki went still.

“Jotunheim,” Thor said again, and looked up at Loki, eyes filled with a helpless plea.  His legs suddenly gave away and he fell gracelessly to the ground.  Concerned, his wariness forgotten, Loki knelt beside him.  Tears were again running down Thor’s face.

“…I killed so many,” Thor breathed.  “So many.  And for what?  My own – pride?”  He choked out a harsh laugh.  “I deserved what father did.  To kill, like a mindless beast.  And for what?  A childish insult?”

“Were they not monsters?” Loki asked cautiously.  “Was it not your honor you were defending?”

Thor’s face burned with shame.  “They are beings of another realm.  That war was long over.  And I – I wanted to ignite a new one.  For glory.”  He buried his face in his hands.  “I committed murder – over and over.  I deserve what Father did to me,” he repeated.  Then his face hardened.  “What of Jotunheim?  I must make amends for what I caused to happen.  Is my punishment sufficient or have I brought war down upon us all?”  He seized Loki’s arm, eyes burning with desperation.  “Tell me, how many have died because of what I did?”

Loki was silent for a moment.  Where to begin?  How many lies to tell?  How much truth?  “There is much to tell you.  Much about the lies we were both told.”  He glanced around at their surroundings.  “Would you like a drink?  I know I would.”

Thor just stared at him, and he had the sudden urge to just burst out laughing again.  Instead, he took Thor’s hand and vanished them away, reappearing in an airy mountain lodge.

He’d scouted it out beforehand, of course.  If he succeeded in restoring Thor to himself, he’d wanted a place to retreat, to talk, to recover.

Or if he failed....

Feelings of grief and the fear of the utter loss of his brother, sometimes lover, forced their way into his mind and he shoved them back.  He hadn’t failed.  Thor was alive, here, with him.  That’s all that mattered.

He quite liked this place.  They were standing in the middle of a sitting room, enormous by Midgardian standards, cosy by Asgardian ones.  One entire wall was a vast window that looked out into a dramatic mountain scene.  Sharp bare peaks thrust upwards into a storm-purple sky, their sides coated with snow.

Several clusters of white sofas and padded chairs placed on a grey and beige flagstoned floor were arranged around the room.  The chaotic design of the random uneven shapes of the tiles was pleasing.  The few faded rugs scattered about looked deliberately chosen for what Midgardians might call antiquity.  A huge stone fireplace dominated one end of the room.  With a casual gesture he brought a roaring fire to life.

Thor, still nude, was staring around him, with such a look of lost hopelessness that a smile froze on Loki’s face. 

 “Where are we?” Thor asked in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper.

“Still in Norway.”

Thor glanced around the room.  “What is this place?” 

“A mountain lodge owned by a member of the gentry.  Don’t worry,” he said as if to forestall Thor’s next question.  “He has, as I believe, ‘shut it up for a season’.  I don’t know what that means, except no one is here and no one will be here.”

“Does he not have guards?”  Thor still sounded dazed.

“Only of the sort created by Midgardian technology.  I was amused to discover their aspirations to control lightning have actually born fruit.  But these are unliving guards, and I have rendered them deaf and blind.”

“An alarm system,” Thor said, but it was Blake’s intonations.

Loki looked at him sharply.  Of course Thor would be familiar with all kinds of mortal contrivances.  The realization gave him an odd feeling, an old thread of envy, because Thor now knew things he did not.

Thor, still looking as if he’d lost a round with a mountain troll and couldn’t figure out how, sat abruptly on a white leather couch ample enough not to look tiny under his bulk.

Loki went behind a long counter and began opening various cabinets and examining the contents.  He returned with two large bottles, one filled with a warm brown liquid, the other with clear.  He set down two glasses an oval table between the couch and an oversized chair.  “You favor whiskey, I recall.”  He sprawled down in the chair opposite to where Thor sat, needing the tiny barrier of the table between them.

Thor just stared at the bottles.  “New York,” he said.

His heart pounding, he managed to say evenly, “Yes.  New York.”  Now it comes, Loki thought, with a dull sort of resignation.  Loki waited for it – the anger and recriminations, the fury at Loki for making him ergi. 

But perhaps – he clung to this hope - perhaps Blake’s thoughts and ideals would stay with Thor.  Blake, as he recalled with pleasure, enjoyed being ergi.  He had already _been_ ergi.  Perhaps Thor would remember that before he tried to avenge his stolen honor.

Thor grabbed a bottle, opened it, tilted his head back and poured the contents down his throat.

Typical, Loki thought, remembering Blake’s nice manners.  He opened the other bottle, poured the vodka into a tumbler and drained its contents in one go.  He poured another and disposed of that one equally quickly.  Thor lifted up the empty bottle, clearly ready to fling it to the floor’s paving stones.  Then he stopped, stared at it, then set it down carefully on the table between them.

“New York,” he said again, but there was no hint of anger in his voice, and when he glanced up his blue eyes were filled with such pain and uncertainty that Loki’s fears receded to be replaced with growing concern.  He’d never seen that expression before in Thor’s eyes.  At one point he knew he would have reveled in Thor’s pain, but the desire to do so seemed somehow very far away. 

Loki got up and grabbed another two bottles at random from the bar.  When he returned Thor was staring at the floor, shoulders hunched, head down, the picture of utter dejection. 

He set the new bottles on the table and sat.  He opened one with the label Akvavit, and poured himself a glass of some pale yellow liquid. 

Hmm.  Unusual taste.  He sipped at it this time, and watched Thor, remaining alert.

Thor picked up the other bottle and held it, staring at it, not opening it.  Finally Thor looked up.  “Brother,” he said, “You were angry at me.”

Loki tensed, uncertain what he meant.

“You had every right to be.  What a fool I was, to go off like that, taking only a few friends with me, as if we were a small party hunting dragons or bilgesnipe.   You tried to dissuade me, before we left.  And then you tried to convince me to leave Jotunheim, to do the wise thing.   If it weren’t for Father arriving when he did, you would all be dead.” 

 ** _We_** _would all be dead,_ he thought, and wondered how long Thor thought he would have survived after the rest of them had been slain. 

Tears had reappeared in Thor’s eyes.  “ **You** could have died.”  There was naked horror and grief in his voice. 

 “You could have died too.  I feared that you would, before Father came for us.”  He found himself speaking without thought in the face of that remembered fear.  “I sent Father a message.  I spoke to a guard before we left.”

Thor’s gaze focused, startled, and Loki dug his fingers into the cushions of the chair, fears reawakened. 

Then Thor sighed, “You were always wiser than I, brother.”

Loki relaxed, startled and warmed by the praise. 

“I am pleased that my friends did come to visit me that one time.  Had they not done so, had I not known that that Fandral and Volstaff were well, I would have thought the worst.  Well I remember how sorely Fandral was injured, and Volstagg - I know those elder warriors who lost limbs at a Jötnar’s touch.  The same could have happened to him due to my foolhardiness.  I am most grieved that they were injured by my lack of judgment.”

Loki went very still, making his face blank, unsure how to respond to words he had never anticipated coming out of Thor’s mouth.

“What is it?” Thor asked, becoming more focused.  Some of the confusion had left his face, to be replaced by dread.  “Tell me now of Jotunheim.  Are we at war?”

“No, we are not, Thor, and will not be.  In the time you have been gone, Mother and I have worked out peace with Laufey King.  You have no cause for concern.”

Tension visibly drained from Thor and he leaned back into the couch, his eyes sliding half shut.  “All is well with Asgard then.”  Relief, then sadness touched his face.  “Tell me now how peace was achieved.”

Loki embarked on a highly embellished and highly edited version of the events, one he could already hear himself composing into a grand saga.  Well, it was missing the usual blood and gore, so perhaps it would not be a crowd pleaser.  He did not mention a word about the discovery he had made about himself.  Who he was – _what_ he was – would forever remain a secret.  He ended with a flourish, “It was simplicity itself.”

Thor, looking impressed, laughed, and finally looked like he was at peace.  “Only you would describe those events as simple.” 

Outside, the sun had set, and the vast window showed nothing but near-complete darkness.  The fire was burning lower and the flickering light cast moving shadows across Thor’s face.  Thor let out a sigh. 

“What are you thinking?” Loki said, impatient with Thor’s uncharacteristic silence, and for once refraining from a jab at Thor’s lack of ability to think.

“All these years,” he murmured.  “I’ve been working so hard – there was so much to do.  Still, I’m glad I decided to take a vacation…”  He sat up straight.  “That brochure – I recall now I sensed magicks on it, though I knew not what they were.”

“I sent it to you, yes,” Loki said, taken aback by the sudden shift to Blake’s mortal concerns.  “I needed you to be near your beloved hammer.  I had to lure you there somehow.”

“You always did like complicated plots,” Thor said.  “What am I thinking?  About my plans.  What I was going to do next.  Which offer from which hospital to take.  One minute those options still seem important, the next minute, very far away.”  Thor’s face, Loki noted, was so much younger than Blake’s had been, but his eyes were so very much older.

Thor leaned forward even further and stretched out his hand across the table, sending Loki a look mingling uncertainty, questioning, and hope. 

There was no anger there.  Unsettled, wondering how long Thor’s mortal life, his mortal concerns would stay with him, Loki tossed down the rest of his Akvavit, then reached out as well to take Thor’s hand.

“I am weary,” Thor said, “And wish to sleep.  But…”  He looked down at the table.  He squeezed Loki’s hand.  “Will you stay with me?  I fear… I do not know who I am.”

“Yes, Thor,” Loki said, increasingly disturbed by Thor’s state of mind.  He had thought all would be well when Thor remembered who he was – except of course the danger to himself if Thor chose to take retribution for what he had done. 

He should have known it wouldn’t be this simple.  Nothing ever was.

Thor squeezed his hand tightly.  He stood.  Loki followed.  Thor clung to Mjolnir as if he would never let it go as they went in search of a bedchamber.


	15. Chapter 15

One of the sleeping chambers contained a bed more than large enough for both of them.  In silence, Thor set Mjolnir down within reach of the bed.  Loki removed his outer clothing but left his breeches and undershirt on.  Thor did not comment on this.  He turned off the switches that brought light into the chamber, and lay down upon the bed, which creaked beneath his weight.  Loki slid silently beneath the sheets on his side facing Thor.  Moonlight flooded in through a skylight, leaving them in a dim silvery light.

They lay in silence, not speaking for a long time, then Thor said softly, “Do you remember when we were children sharing the same bed, and would tell each other stories before we’d fall asleep?”

“Of course I remember, Thor.”  But there had long been a transparent barrier in his mind between him and his memories of this part of his childhood, something he could look through without properly experiencing it.  He knew he had been happy, but he could not remember how that felt.

“Can you remember any of those tales, brother?”

“Yes,” Loki said.  He could remember them all but did not offer to tell one.

Thor was silent for so long that Loki wondered if he had fallen asleep.  “I can remember my mother… my human mother, Blake’s mother, telling me stories as a child.”

Loki started, never having considered that issue.  “You will have to ask the − ” he paused and considered that he would prefer Thor not inquire too closely as to why he would not say the simple word “father”, and then, grinding his teeth, said, “ask Father, if he ever awakes.”  A pause.  “Whatever happened to her?  Your human mother?”

“She died in a car accident.”  There was such grief in Thor’s voice that Loki had no idea what to say, so he settled for clasping Thor’s hand in his and gripping it tightly.  How _had_ Odin arranged all of this?  He knew the All Father had de-aged Thor to an infant; on his first trip to Midgard he had seen the mewling babe under the care of some mortal servants he had assumed Odin had arranged.  But to hear Thor talk about his mother...  “Do you wonder now how could you be born to a mortal and still be Mother’s child?”

“Oh,” Thor said.  “No, I was a foundling.  My parents adopted me.”

The shock that hit Loki at these words was like a lightning strike through his entire body.  He tightened his grip on Thor’s hand so powerfully, his mind in such turmoil, that it took a moment to realize Thor was calling his name in concern.

“What troubles you, brother?”

“Nothing,” Loki stammered, hearing the shakiness in his voice.  Thor’s narrowed eyes  showed he heard it too.  Thor threw an arm around him and began running a large hand in circles over Loki’s back.  At the comforting touch the storm in his mind began to recede.

“How did you find out?” he finally found the voice to ask.

“They told me when I was ten years old, when they thought I was old enough to know.”

Loki’s fingernails bit so hard into his hand he knew he had drawn blood. “How did you feel,” Loki his voice still uncertain, “when you learned you were not the son of those who raised you?”

Thor considered.  “I was uncertain.  Disturbed.  It was such a hard thing to imagine that my parents were not they who sired or gave birth to me.  I wondered what had happened to my birth family.  Did they die?  Did they do something wrong?”  He rumbled a half laugh.  “Well, I know the answers now.” 

“Odin’s punishment on you was harsh indeed,” Loki said, but Thor was shaking his head.

“My parents – the ones who raised me – are still truly my parents.  Blake’s parents.  **My** parents.”  A smile twisted his mouth.  “This is all so confusing.  My mother was a good person.  Kind, loving.  My father – well, he and I had differences.  After I got sick – he didn’t think I’d ever amount to much.  He thought it was a waste of money to send me to medical school.  But I was able to get scholarships.   We’re reconciled now.” 

“So your adoptive father still lives,” Loki said in a flat tone.  _We are alike, even in this._ He was utterly unable to identify what he was feeling at this moment.  There was anger and envy, there was the need to hold Thor close and never let him go, there was the need to confess everything, and the need to forever hold his silence.

“Oh yes.  He lives over in Saratoga Springs.”  A shadow crossed Thor’s face.  His embrace tightened and he was staring into Loki’s eyes, their faces so very close their breath intermingled.  “I am so confused,” Thor confessed. “I thank you again for saving me.  I am glad you are here.  I am glad you are with me.  Be patient with me, brother, for I do not know who I am.”

Thor was trembling, and with a stab of fear Loki threw his arm around Thor’s solid torso.  Thor buried his face in Loki’s shoulder and held on as if he never planned to let go.  Loki shoved his shock at Thor’s revelation to the back of his mind and began whispering the same comforting words he remembered his mother telling him as a child when he had suffered from nightmares.  He rubbed circles against the smooth skin of Thor’s broad back, and felt something open in him to too much sentiment to bear.

Comforted by the heat and bulk and closeness of Thor, one feeling returned to him:  how being held by Thor always made him feel safe.  Thor pressed his lips in a chaste kiss to Loki’s forehead and Loki settled further into his embrace.  Thor murmured something, then his breathing slowed and he fell asleep.

Loki lay awake in the darkness, his thoughts darting this way and that, dancing away from fears, striving for some plan, any plan, for try as he might he did not know how to build any plan upon the shifting sands of his brother’s state of mind.

He slept at last, weariness finally overcoming him.  When he woke the skylight was dark but silver moonlight was filtering into the room through the windows.  Thor’s eyes were open, looking at him.  He was also uncomfortably aware that he was very much aroused, and that his trapped penis was pressed close to Thor’s thigh.

Thor’s equal arousal was obvious.  “Do you still want me?” Thor asked in a husky voice.

“Oh, yes,” Loki responded immediately, rubbing against Thor’s naked thigh, a triumphant grin flickering across his lips, quickly composed into one containing more sweetness.  Then Thor pulled back a bit and inserted his hand between them, rubbing its back against Loki’s cloth-covered cock.

Loki decided to instantly vanish his clothing.  Thor chuckled.  “I always liked that trick,” he said.

Their mouths fastened together, a frantic feast to assuage starvation.  Loki dug his fingers deep into Thor’s shoulders as Thor rolled over, pulling Loki on top of him.  Loki, from this unaccustomed position, took a bare second to admire the strong lines of Thor’s shoulders and neck before bending down to suck hard at the place where neck joined shoulder.  He then nipped his way up the column of his neck to an earlobe, which he worried with his teeth, Thor squirming and making pleasured noises beneath him.  When his mouth reached Thor’s lips, Thor opened his mouth immediately.  Loki insinuated his tongue inside, tasting and testing the smoothness of his inner cheek, the hard shapes of teeth, the muscle of a combative tongue, intoxicated by the rightness of Thor’s taste, now free of mortal taint. 

He pressed his body against Thor’s, skin to skin at every part, and wished somehow he could press even closer, a thread of worry - was Thor truly back? – thrumming between the surface of his need.  _Mine,_ his mind insisted, as he dragged his mouth across Thor’s face to claim his mouth again and again.  _Mine, now, always._

Thor set his hands on Loki’s shoulders and pushed just enough that he sat back.  Thor held him at arm’s length and Loki scowled at the action.  Thor’s eyes held questions, betrayed uncertainty; and Loki was utterly aware of how much had changed.

“I did mean it, you know.” Thor’s voice was so thick with passion it took him a moment to understand what he had said.  “I did want to let you have me.  But I was afraid.”

Loki’s eyebrows shot up, and while every instinct demanded he rub against Thor again, hungered for that sweet friction, he sat back on his haunches instead, breaking most contact with Thor’s body.  He couldn’t resist saying with a wicked grin, “The mighty Thor, admitting to fear?”

Amazingly, he did not take offense at Loki’s words.  “You are braver than I, to be ergi and to do as you will and desire, not as you should because of what is expected of you.  I wanted what I shouldn’t want.  And so did Blake.  But then Blake decided he would have what he wanted.  What I wanted.  What we both want.  This is so confusing.”  His face screwed up in a half smile, half grimace, “And I have no way with words.  So I ask this.  Will you be with me?  In any way you desire?”

Victory, Loki thought as he clasped Thor’s hand then trailed his fingers away as he leaned forward again, did not feel the way he had expected it to.

But desire felt exactly the way he expected it to.  And with Thor now willing to give him what he most wanted, it did not feel like triumph as much as it did coming home.

It didn’t matter.  Not now.  Perhaps not anymore.  How strange it was, to stare down into Thor’s face in this unaccustomed position.  He bent down and pressed another kiss to Thor’s lips, licking the edges, savoring the taste, then pulling back again.  Thor looked up at him with a bright open lustful smile, his cock hard between them.  Thor’s hands skimmed from Loki’s shoulders to his waist to his lower back, then cupped around his ass, a long slow smooth caress that made every bit of his skin come alive.  His fingers drifted up again, lightly scraping Loki’s back with his nails.  Loki growled, his cock jerking. He pulled back a bit, positioning himself, and gathered up both of their cocks in one long-fingered hand, wrapping his fingers tightly, and pulled, rubbing them both together in one long sliding motion.

Thor uttered a low guttural moan, calling his name, and the sound of that deep voice uttering his name with such mindless pleasure nearly made Loki spill.  Gasping, he broke contact and held himself over Thor, leaning his weight on his hands, not touching.

Thor’s chest was heaving, and his hands hand dug into the bedclothes.  His cock bobbed, its head emerged from the foreskin, red and needy and with a twinge Loki thought for one brief instant of Blake’s maimed penis and was grateful he had Thor back whole in every way.  Thor hissed when Loki wrapped a hand around his cock and rubbed a thumb against the head, then made a whining, pleading sound when Loki let go.

“Will you go on your knees for me, brother?” Loki whispered, and Thor’s pupils, already adapted to darkness, went even wider. 

“Whatever you wish, brother,” Thor said.  The surge of lust that flooded Loki left him nearly undone.  He straightened and swung one leg wide, then got off the bed.  “Where do you want me?” Thor asked, and Loki’s cock went so achingly hard it hurt.

“Bend over the bed,” he said, his voice so rough he barely recognized it.  Thor instantly swung his legs over, stood, then gauging the distance, knelt by the bed and bent down over the mattress, ass completely exposed.

Loki conjured slick in his hands and quickly ran one hand down his straining cock, which was so hard, so needful, he had to let go and take in deep breaths to keep from spilling.  Thor looked back over his shoulder at Loki as if to ask what he was waiting for, and Loki, remembering Blake doing exactly the same thing, reached with sure hands to part Thor’s ass, to slide two fingers in, to spread the slick inside, Thor’s needful groan deepening as Loki introduced a third finger.

Thor’s thighs, as he stepped between them, were like the columns of young trees.  Loki positioned his cock against Thor’s entrance.  He intended to go slowly, but as he pushed forward Thor pushed back.  He slid all the way in with a shout of ecstasy, answered by Thor’s returning groan.

He pulled out, pushed in, and oh yes, Thor knew what to do, Blake knew what to do; he was meeting every thrust, squeezing him tightly.  He threw aside any consideration he could harm Thor, now cured of his mortality, and began a hard quick rhythm. 

“Yes, do it, yes, please,” Thor was urging, and the sound of his brother’s deep voice pleading to be breached made Loki impossibly harder, bright surges of pleasure shooting through his entire body.  He had one hand on Thor’s left hip, the other beneath Thor’s body, sliding rapidly back and forth along Thor’s length.  “There,” Thor groaned as Loki changed his angle as he thrust in.  “Yes, there!  Loki….”  Loki aimed for the same place and Thor’s words of pleasure and need became urgent wordless sounds.  The entire world was now Thor’s heat and tightness, Thor’s back and thighs slick with sweat, the smell of their arousal thick in his nostrils.  Thor began calling Loki’s name over and over and hearing those words he’d always wanted filled him with pleasure so intense it annihilated all thought but this, Thor wanted it, wanted it from HIM.  And he was coming, so hard, so intensely, the orgasm when it hit him shattering in its ferocity.  Thor came a moment later, shouting his pleasure. 

Loki pulled out, then the two of them managed to make their way back onto the bed.  Loki made an effort and called his magick to make them clean. Thor’s eyelids were fluttering closed, but he roused enough to press soft kisses to Loki’s forehead and cheeks, and finally his mouth.  Loki flung an arm around him and settled into the comfort of his nearness, and then, mind finally at peace for once, fell deeply asleep.

*****

Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows.  Loki woke, and rolled away from the light.

The rest of the bed was empty, and he sat up, fully awake.

Faint sounds and the distinctive smell of that favored Midgardian beverage coffee drifted in from another chamber.  He summoned clothing, informal Asgardian attire, and made his way to the lodge’s kitchen.

Thor was behind a freestanding table, opening and closing bare kitchen cupboards.  Loki was pleased to note that enough of Thor’s own innate magic had come back to summon clothing, as he was currently dressed in the breeches and undershirt he wore beneath his armor.  He turned and gave him a bright, sunny, welcoming smile.

He handed Loki a cup of coffee.  Loki did not understand what Midgardians saw in that vile beverage, but Thor drained his with every sign of pleasure. 

“Brother, there is no food here,” Thor said apologetically.

“Yes, the house is closed, as I said.  At least they left their beverages,” Loki said, grateful there had been a plentiful supply of weak Midgardian alcohol last night; tame though it was it had helped them through that difficult conversation.

Thor looked at him with a troubled expression on his face.  “We should go.  We don’t belong here.  This house doesn’t belong to us.”

It gave him pause again, to hear Midgardian cadences and phrasing from his brother’s lips.  “What a provincial Misgardian attitude.”  But Loki was smiling fondly.  “Perhaps they should be honored that royalty deigns to visit.”  He smirked at the expression on Thor’s face.  “But if it is your wish.  Do you really want to return to Asgard so soon?”

“No.”  Thor’s expression turned dark at the thought.  “No.  I want to go home.  My home.  I mean, here on Midgard.”

It took Loki a minute to find words, confronted by such a surprise.  “If that is your wish.”

Thor’s brow furrowed.  “I need to remember who I am.  In Asgard…  I cannot be who I was.  But I don’t know yet who I will become.”  Thor paused, then asked hesitantly, “Your magicks have grown since I last saw you.”  At Loki’s inquiring look, he added, “The way you brought us here, one moment one place, the next here.”

“Ah Thor,” Loki set the coffee cup down, untasted.  “I had some knowledge of these ways before.”

Thor’s gaze darkened.  “You could have taken us back from Jotunheim, then.”

Loki shook his head.  “I did not have the power, then, to transport others than myself. I have learned much in the years since.”  It was luxurious, the way the long exposure to the powers of the throne and of the Casket had augmented his abilities.  There was so much more he could do now, and he knew himself as yet untested in the extent of his abilities.

The realization hit Thor.  “You could have left, though, by yourself.  Left us behind.”

“I wonder at myself that I did not.  As always,” he offered Thor an indulgent smile, “I felt I needed to protect the backs of careless fools.” 

Thor’s gaze became ridiculously sentimental.  He walked around the table to give Loki a fierce embrace. 

Loki permitted it, enjoyed the press of Thor’s forehead against his, the familiar feel of Thor’s caressing hands against his neck.  “I’ve missed you,” he said.  “Never doubt that I love you.”  And that was true.  Happiness was unexpected, and he suspected, fleeting, but he grabbed on to it hard, and he returned Thor’s embrace with all his strength.  This was true, in this moment, and this moment was all he wanted now.  Thor was alive.  Thor was here.  Thor was his.  His brother, his lover, the shining half of his tarnished soul.  Away from Asgard, in this mortal realm where there was no one to compare them, no one to see him in Thor’s shadow, with Thor’s unexpected mortal wisdom, perhaps all could be new between them. 

And Asgard, whenever they returned… How would Thor fit in?  How would Asgard regard their golden prince, if he no longer followed the ways of war?

And how would he fit in?  He now had the respect and trust of most of the Asgardian people.  What would his place be, in whatever new course awaited them?

He remembered what mother had said:  _“If we, as royalty, cannot change the rules, who can?”_

He smiled.  There was plenty of time to think of what to do next.

“Shall we go then?” he asked when Thor broke the embrace.

“Do you know where I live?”

“Of course I do,” Loki said.

Thor laughed.  “Of course you do.” 

He took Loki’s hand, and they vanished.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have ideas for a sequel - watch this space...! If you enjoyed my story, I'd love it if you left a kudos. Thanks for reading!
> 
> LAST MINUTE ADDITION: Art post by Slice of Pice here:  
> http://slice-of-pai.tumblr.com/post/153331551222/secret-identities-by-catalenamara-its-a-long-and


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